Hard Eight (13 page)

“Right,” Lula and I said in unison.

Kloughn went around back, and Lula and I marched up to the front door. I rapped on the door and Lula and I stood to either side. There was the unmistakable sound of a shotgun ratcheting back, Lula and I gave each other an
oh shit
look, and Bender blasted a two-foot hole in his front door.

Lula and I took off, running. We dove into the car headfirst, there was another shotgun blast, I scrambled behind the wheel and took off, tires smoking. I whipped the car around the side of the building, jumped the curb, and skidded to a stop inches from Kloughn. Lula grabbed Kloughn by the front of his shirt, pulled him into the car, and I rocketed away.

“What happened?” Kloughn asked. “Why are we leaving? Wasn’t he home?”

“We changed our mind about getting him tonight,” Lula said. “We could have got him if we really wanted, but we changed our mind.”

“We changed our mind because he shot at us,” I said to Kloughn.

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” Kloughn said. “Did you shoot back?”

“I was thinking about it,” Lula said, “but you gotta fill out a lot of papers when you shoot someone. I didn’t want to take the time tonight.”

“At least you got to hold the cuffs,” Kloughn said.

Lula looked down at her hands. No cuffs. “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I must have dropped the cuffs in the excitement of the moment. It wasn’t that I was scared, you know. I just got excited.”

On the way through town I stopped at Soder’s bar. “This will only take a minute,” I told everyone. “I need to talk to Steven Soder.”

“Fine by me,” Lula said. “I could use a drink.” She looked over at Kloughn. “How about you, Pufnstuf?”

“Sure, I could use a drink, too. It’s Saturday night, right? You gotta go out and have a drink on Saturday night.”

“I could have had a date,” Lula said.

“Me, too,” Kloughn said. “There are lots of women who want to go out with me. I just didn’t feel like being bothered. Sometimes it’s good to take a night off from all that stuff.”

“Last time I was in this bar I sort of got thrown out,” Lula said. “You don’t suppose they’re gonna hold a grudge, do you?”

Soder saw me when I walked in. “Hey, it’s Little Miss Loser,” he said. “And her two loser friends.”

“Sticks and stones,” I said.

“Have you found my kid yet?” A taunt, not a question.

I shrugged. The shrug said
maybe I have, but then again maybe I haven’t.

“
Looooser
,” Soder sang.

“You should learn some people skills,” I said to him. “You should be more civil to me. And you should have been nicer to Dotty earlier today.”

That got him standing up straighter. “How do you know about Dotty?”

Another shrug.

“Don’t give me another one of them shrugs,” he said. “That birdbrain ex-wife of mine is a kidnapper. And you better tell me if you know anything.”

I had him wondering about the extent of my knowledge. Probably not smart, but definitely satisfying.

“I’ve changed my mind about wanting a drink,” I said to Lula and Kloughn.

“Okay by me,” Lula said. “I don’t like the atmosphere in this bar anyway.”

Soder took another look at Kloughn. “Hey, I remember you. You’re the jerk-off lawyer who represented Evelyn.”

Kloughn beamed. “You remember me? I didn’t think anyone would remember. Boy, how about that.”

“Evelyn got control of the kid because of you,” Soder said. “You made a big issue about this bar. You put my kid with a drugged-up moron, you incompetent fuck.”

“She didn’t look drugged-up to me,” Kloughn said. “Maybe a little . . . distracted.”

“How about if I distract my foot up your ass,” Soder said, making for the end of the long oak bar.

Lula shoved her hand into her big leather shoulder bag. “I got Mace in here, somewhere. I got a gun.”

I turned Kloughn around and pushed him toward the door. “
Go
” I yelled in his ear. “Run for the car!”

Lula still had her head down, rummaging in her bag. “I
know
I’ve got a gun in here.”

“Forget the gun!” I said to Lula. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“The hell,” Lula said. “This guy deserves to get shot. And I’d do it if I could just find my gun.”

Soder rounded the bar and charged after Kloughn. I stepped in front of Soder, and he gave me a two-handed shove.

“Hey, you can’t shove her like that,” Lula said. And she smacked Soder in the back of his head with her bag. He whirled around, and she hit him again, this time catching him in the face, knocking him back a couple feet.

“What?” Soder said, dazed and blinking, swaying slightly.

Two goons started at us from the other end of the bar, and half the room had guns drawn.

“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “Guess I left my gun in my other handbag.”

I grabbed Lula by the sleeve and gave her a yank toward the door, and we both took off running. I beeped the car open with my remote, we all jumped in, and I zoomed away.

“Soon as I find my gun, I’ve got a mind to go back there and pop a cap up his ass,” Lula said.

In all the time I’ve known Lula, I’ve never known her to pop a cap up anyone’s ass. Unjustified bravado was high on our list of bounty hunter talents.

“I need a day off,” I said. “I especially need a day without Bender.”

One of the good things about hamsters is that you can tell them anything. Hamsters are nonjudgmental as long as you feed them.

“I have no life,” I said to Rex. “How did it come to this? I used to be such an interesting person. I used to
be fun. And now look at me. It’s two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, and I’ve watched
Ghostbusters
twice. It’s not even raining. There’s no excuse, except that I’m boring.”

I glanced over at the answering machine. Maybe it was broken. I lifted the phone receiver and got a dial tone. I pushed the message button and the voice told me I had no messages. Stupid invention.

“I need a hobby,” I said.

Rex sent me a
yeah, right
look. Knitting? Gardening? Decoupage? I don’t think so.

“Okay, then how about sports? I could play tennis.” No, wait a minute, I’d tried tennis and I sucked. What about golf? Nope, I sucked at golf, too.

I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and the top button was open on my jeans. Too many cupcakes. I got to thinking about Steven Soder calling me a loser. Maybe he was right. I scrinched my eyes closed to see if I could pop out a pity tear for myself. No luck. I sucked my stomach in and buttoned my pants. Pain. And there was a roll of fat hanging over the waistband. Not attractive.

I stomped into my bedroom and changed into running shorts and shoes. I was
not
a loser. I had a small roll of fat hanging over my waistband. No big deal. A little exercise and the fat would disappear. And there’d be the added benefit of endorphins. I didn’t exactly know what endorphins were but I knew they were good and you got them from exercise.

I got into the CR-V and drove to the park in Hamilton Township. I could have gone running from my back door but where’s the fun in that? In Jersey we never miss an opportunity for a car trip. Besides, the driving gave me prep time. I needed to psych myself up for this exercise
stuff. I was going to really get into it this time. I was going to run. I was going to sweat. I was going to look great. I was going to
feel
great. Maybe I’d actually
take up
running.

It was a glorious blue-sky day, and the park was crowded. I got a spot toward the back of the lot, locked the CR-V up, and walked to the jogging path. I did some warm-up stretches and took off at a slow run. After a quarter mile I remembered why I never did this. I
hated
it. I hated running. I hated sweating. I hated the big, ugly running shoes I was wearing.

I pushed through to the half-mile mark where I had to stop, thank God, for a stitch in my side. I looked down at the fat roll. It was still there.

I made it to a mile and collapsed onto a bench. The bench looked out over the lake where people were rowing around in boats. A family of ducks floated close to the shore. Across the lake, I could see the parking lot and a concession stand. There was water at the concession stand. There was no water by my bench. Hell, who was I kidding? I didn’t want water, anyway. I wanted a Coke. And a box of Cracker Jacks.

I was looking out at the ducks, thinking there were times in history when fat rolls were considered sexy, and wasn’t it too bad I didn’t live during one of those times. A huge, shaggy, prehistoric, orange beast bounded over to me and buried his nose in my crotch. Yipes. It was Morelli’s dog, Bob. Bob had originally come to live at my house but after some shifting around had decided he preferred living with Morelli.

“He’s excited to see you,” Morelli said, settling next to me.

“I thought you were taking him to obedience school.”

“I did. He learned how to sit and stay and heel. The course didn’t address crotch sniffing.” He looked me over. “Flushed face, the hint of sweat at the hairline, hair pulled into a ponytail, running shoes. Let me take a guess here. You’ve been exercising.”

“And?”

“Hey, I think it’s great. I’m just surprised. Last time I went running with you, you took a detour into a bakery.”

“I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Can’t button your jeans?”

“Not if I want to breathe at the same time.”

Bob spotted a duck on the bank and raced after it. The duck took to the water, and Bob splashed in up to his eyeballs. He turned and looked at us, panic stricken. He was possibly the only retriever in the entire world who couldn’t swim.

Morelli waded into the lake and dragged Bob back to the shore. Bob slogged onto the grass, gave himself a shake, and immediately ran off, chasing a squirrel.

“You’re such a hero,” I said to Morelli.

He kicked his shoes off and rolled his slacks to his knees. “I hear you’ve been up to some heroics, too. Butch Dziewisz and Frankie Burlew were in Soder’s bar last night.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it was your fault,” Morelli said. “It’s always your fault.”

I did an eye roll.

“Bob misses you.”

“Bob should call me sometime. Leave a message on my machine.”

Morelli slouched back on the bench. “What were you doing in Soder’s bar?”

“I wanted to talk to him about Evelyn and Annie, but he wasn’t in a good mood.”

“Did his mood take a downturn before or after he got clocked with the shoulder bag?”

“He was actually more mellow after Lula hit him.”

“
Dazed
, was the word Butch used.”

“Dazed could be accurate. We didn’t stay around long enough to find out.”

Bob returned from the squirrel chase and woofed at Morelli.

“Bob’s restless,” Morelli said. “I promised him we’d walk around the lake. Which direction are you headed?”

It was one mile if I retraced my steps and three miles if I continued around the lake with Morelli. Morelli looked very fine with his pants rolled up, and I was sorely tempted. Unfortunately, I had a blister on my heel, I still had a cramp in my side, and I suspected I wasn’t at my most attractive. “I’m headed for the lot,” I said.

There was an awkward moment where I waited for Morelli to prolong our time together. I would have liked him to walk back to the car with me. Truth is, I missed Morelli. I missed the passion, and I missed the affectionate teasing. He never tugged at my hair anymore. He didn’t try to look down my shirt or up my skirt. We were at an impasse, and I was at a loss as to how to end it.

“Try to be careful,” Morelli said. We stared at each other for a moment, and we each went our own way.

I limped back to the concession stand and got a Coke and a box of Cracker Jacks. Cracker Jacks don’t count as junk food because they’re corn and peanuts, which we know to be high in nutrition. And they have a prize inside.

I walked the short distance to the water’s edge, opened the box of Cracker Jacks, and a goose rushed up to me and pecked me in the knee. I jumped back, but he kept coming at me, honking and pecking. I threw a Cracker Jack as far as I could, and the goose scrambled after it. Big mistake. Turns out, tossing a Cracker Jack is the goose equivalent to a party invitation. Suddenly geese were rushing at me from every corner of the park, running on their stupid goose webbed feet, waggling their fat goose asses, flapping their big goose wings, their beady, black goose eyes fixed on my Cracker Jacks. They fought among themselves as they charged me, squawking, honking, viciously snapping, jockeying for position.

“Run for your life, honey! Give them the Cracker Jacks,” an old lady yelled from a nearby bench. “Throw them the box, or those honkers’ll eat you alive!”

I held tight to my box. “I didn’t get to the prize. The prize is still in the box.”

“Forget the prize!”

There were geese flying in from across the lake. Hell, for all I knew they could have been flying in from Canada. One of them hit me square in the chest and sent me sprawling. I let out a shriek and lost my grip on the box. The geese attacked with no regard for human or goose life. The noise was deafening. Goose wings beat against me, and goose toenails ripped holes in my T-shirt.

It seemed like the feeding frenzy lasted for hours, but in fact it was maybe a minute. The geese departed as quickly as they came, and all that was left were goose feathers and goose poop. Huge, gelatinous gobs of goose poop . . . as far as the eye could see.

An old man was on the bench with the old woman. “You don’t know much, do you?” he said to me.

I picked myself up, crept to my car, opened the door with the remote, and numbly wedged myself behind the wheel. So much for exercise. I drove on autopilot out of the lot and somehow found my way to Hamilton Avenue. I was a couple blocks from my apartment building when I sensed movement on the seat next to me. I turned my head to look, and a spider the size of a dinner plate jumped at me.

“
Eeeeyow!
Holy shit!
HOLY SHIT!
” I sideswiped a parked car, took the curb, and came to a stop on a patch of lawn. I threw my door open and hurled myself out of the car. I was still jumping around, shaking my hair out, when the first cops arrived.