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“You think she’s got something to do with the treasure?” Lula asked.
“I don’t know. I think it’s weird that she mysteriously showed up and went down into the tunnel.”
“Yeah, who does that with their Fendi backpack and Louboutins? Those Louboutins didn’t even look like knockoffs. They looked like they were made out of real quality leather.”
The Mercedes took a right turn, drove two blocks, and took another right. It sailed through a yellow light, and I got the red.
“I think she made you,” Lula said.
“Yep.”
“Not her first rodeo,” Lula said.
“Yep, again.”
Twenty minutes later I was on Stiller Street. Narrow, two-story, redbrick row houses lined both sides of the street for three blocks. The brick was grimy with age. Paint was blistered and peeling on window trim. Front yards were postage stamp size, and most were neglected. It was easy to find Trotter’s house. His van was parked at the curb.
“This isn’t much of a neighborhood for a doctor,” Lula said. “You’d think he’d have a nicer house. I’m guessing he does a lot of pro bono butt jobs.”
“He isn’t a doctor,” I said, parking behind the van. “He’s a con man.”
“Even more reason why he should have a certain lifestyle. He doesn’t have any overhead. He just has a lame-ass van to service. And he doesn’t have to buy malpractice insurance. He probably don’t have to fill out any Medicare forms, either, since it’s a questionable cosmetic procedure.”
Lula and I crossed the small yard, I rapped on Trotter’s front door, and a woman answered. Hard to tell her age. Somewhere between fifty and infinity. Her face was deeply lined and artificially tanned. Her lips looked like they might explode at any minute. A self-rolled joint was stuck between the lips. She was wearing flip-flops and a magenta tent dress that came to mid-calf.
“Mrs. Trotter?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“I’m looking for Rodney. I’d like to speak to him.”
“He’s in the kitchen having a late lunch.”
The living room was dark and cluttered. Too much furniture. Stacks of newspapers. Giant box-store-size jars of snacks. Pretzel nuggets, dill pickles, Hershey miniatures, popcorn, Twizzlers, Cheetos, beef jerky. A gruesome collection of taxidermied animals. Squirrels, cats, foxes, skunks, a small pig, a weasel.
“The snack jars I get,” Lula said, “but what’s with the creepy dead animals?”
“Rodney says taxidermy relaxes him after a hard day of surgery,” the woman said. “It’s his hobby.”
The kitchen was just as cluttered as the living room. Boxes of cereal were stacked on the counters beside jugs of vinegar, family-size jars of peanut butter, badly stuffed rodents with their teeth bared, loaves of bread, and bags of cookies.
A thin man with balding black hair and excessively bloodshot eyes was at the kitchen table. He was wearing a tight silky black shirt, and he was drinking Jose Cuervo tequila without benefit of a glass or straw.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said, eyeing Lula. “You looking for a booty job? I got an opening this afternoon. Soon as I’m done with lunch.”
“First off, I’m not your sweetie,” Lula said. “Second, do I look like I need any work? My booty is perfect just like the rest of me. And even if I wasn’t perfect, I wouldn’t let a drunk punk-ass like you touch me.”
“Sticks and stones,” he said.
“Rodney Trotter?” I asked.
“Yeah. How about you, cutie? You looking to get beautified? I got a special going this week on lips.” He squinted at the woman. “Hey, Ma, show her your lips.”
His mother did duck lips at me and shuffled off into the living room.
“I could give you lips like that,” Trotter said.
“Gee, hard to pass up, but no,” I told him. “I’m looking to take you downtown to reschedule your court date.”
