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“Hey, fry cook!” Lula yelled. “I gotta talk to you.”
A big guy in a grease-stained white T-shirt appeared and stepped up to the counter. He was over six feet tall and built like a bear. He was balding and the hair he had left was pulled into a ponytail. He had a two-day beard and bloodshot eyes.
“You got something to say about my nuts?” he asked Lula.
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Lula looked back at me. “Is he the one?” she whispered.
I nodded, yes.
“Are you Arnold Rugalowski?” Lula asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “So what?”
Lula tucked the bucket of nuts under her arm and fished around in her purse. “Hold on,” she said. “I gotta get my equipment.”
Lula’s purse had the capacity of a small suitcase. Lula could never find anything in her purse.
“Maybe I can help,” I said, moving closer, offering Lula my cuffs.
“Thanks,” Lula said, taking the cuffs, turning to Arnold. “We’re bond enforcement agents, and we want you to come downtown with us, so we can reschedule your court date.”
“Screw that,” Arnold said. “And you’re not getting my nuts, either.”
He reached across the counter and grabbed the cardboard bucket Lula had tucked under her arm.
“Hey!” Lula said. “Those are mine. I paid for them.”
Arnold flipped her the bird and walked back to his fry station.
“That’s rude,” Lula said. “I don’t like his attitude. I want to see the manager,” she said to the counter girl. “I demand to see the manager.”
“He isn’t here right now,” she said. “It’s just me and Arnold. Do you want to talk to Arnold again?”
“Damn right I want to talk to Arnold,” Lula said. “Hey, Arnold!” she yelled. “Get your butt out here and bring my nuts with you.”
Arnold stepped up to the counter. “You want your nuts? Try this on for size.”
He took a donut from the bucket and threw it at Lula. It hit her in the forehead and was followed by a second that hit her left boob.
“Ow!” Lula said. “Stop that.”
“Make me,” Arnold said.
Lula fished around in her purse, found her Glock, and fired off a shot that took out an overhead sign advertising Clucky Nuggets.
The counter girl ducked behind the counter, and a handful of people who had been sitting in booths ran out of the building.
Arnold reached under his greasy T-shirt and grabbed the gun he had tucked under his waistband. “Dumb, fat bitch,” he said. “Eat this.”
Lula shrieked, panicked, and threw her gun at him, and we ran for the car. Arnold unloaded a couple of rounds that missed Lula and me but took out my side mirror.
I chirped the tires getting out of the lot and headed for the office.
“He said I was fat,” Lula said. “Can you imagine?”
“That’s what bothers you about that whole fiasco?”
