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“I’m not the one who had a problem. I brought an FTA in today and he had an accident.”
“Must have been a beauty.”
“I don’t know the details. I have air freshener in the glove compartment.”
Grandma sprayed the air freshener around and stuck her head out the window. When we rolled into the mall parking lot and she pulled her head back in, her hair looked like it had been spray varnished in a wind tunnel. She looked at herself in the visor mirror.
“I could be in one of those punk rock bands,” she said. “I might leave it like this for bingo. Morty is ten years younger than me. He might appreciate this look. There’s going to be a lot of competition for him. I’m going to have to up my game.”
An hour later we returned to the car with Grandma’s new pocketbook and the car smelled worse than ever.
“Now it smells like fried chicken, doody, and lavender air freshener,” Grandma said. “I’m grateful for the ride, but when I get home, I’m going to have to throw my clothes away and take a shower.”
I didn’t throw my clothes away when I got home but I took a shower and washed my hair twice. I had a meatball sandwich on white bread for dinner and washed it down with a bottle of beer.
I shut the television off at ten o’clock and I went into the kitchen to say good night to Rex.
“It wasn’t such a bad day,” I said. “It ended pretty good except for the smell in my car.”
I gave him a peanut, turned to go, and my apartment was rattled by an explosion in the parking lot. I ran to a living room window and looked down at smoke and mangled car parts where my Honda used to be parked. It didn’t take a lot of thought to come up with an explanation. Somebody put up the bail bond for Walburg. I returned to the kitchen and ate a celebratory Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpet. The odor issue was solved.
I lowered the lights and watched the action outside. Police, fire trucks, gawkers. The Rangeman SUV arrived seconds after the first fire truck. Ranger called minutes later.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I captured an FTA bomber today and obviously someone immediately bailed him out.”
“And he bombed your car.”
“I’m guessing.”
“Zane Walburg?”
“Yep.”
“He makes a decent bomb, but he has some delusions-of-grandeur issues,” Ranger said. “Do you need a car?”
“No, but thanks for the offer.”
“Babe,” he said. And he was gone.
I strolled downstairs to the parking lot. I got there just as Morelli rolled in. He parked behind a fire truck and walked over to me. We were standing near a shredded tire.
“Your car?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Good thing you weren’t in it.”
“He was making a point. He didn’t want to kill me.”
“He?” Morelli asked.
“Zane Walburg was FTA and I brought him in for rescheduling today. I’m guessing someone bonded him out.”
“He’s good,” Morelli said. “For instance, notice the way your car is completely destroyed, but very little damage has occurred to the cars surrounding it. That takes talent.”
“It sounds like you’ve had previous dealings with him.”
“Not personally,” Morelli said. “Walburg is a local celebrity in the law-enforcement community. He’s been building bombs for several years and has always been able to avoid prosecution.”
