22 Tricky Twenty-Two (14 page)

IT WAS MONDAY
morning, and I had to go to the office. I looked out my security peephole into the hall. No lunatics in sight. I stepped out and studied the carpet. No fleas hopping around. If there were fleas on the carpet they were sleeping in. Best to try to forget about the fleas.

Connie was alone in the office when I walked in. Vinnie’s door was shut, and I didn’t see his car parked outside. No Lula.

“Where is everybody?” I asked Connie.

“Vinnie is at the courthouse, and Lula is always late. It’s just that you’re usually later than Lula. Sounds like you had a fun day yesterday. I saw the guys in the hazmat suits on the evening news. We made national again.”

“Did they say anything about fleas?”

“No. They said there was the rumor of biological warfare by a terrorist cell. And they showed a picture of Pooka that made him look totally insane.”

“At least they got that right.”

The door crashed open, and Lula bustled in. “We were on the evening news
and
the morning news. I couldn’t get unglued from my television.”

“We?”
I asked.

“Trenton,” Lula said. “They didn’t get a whole lot about the situation right, but there was a picture of Pooka that if it was me I’d rush out and get a makeover.”

I squinted across the room at her. “What have you got around your neck? Omigod, is that a flea collar?”

“Damn skippy it’s a flea collar. I’m not taking no chances. Suppose that nutcase Pooka decides to go spreading his fleas everywhere. Or he could be building new fireworks even as we speak.” Lula tapped her head with her index finger. “No grass growin’ here. I’m no dummy. I went out and got myself some flea protection. This here’s the size for a big dog.”

“It’s got sparkly jewels in it,” Connie said.

“I bedazzled it,” Lula said. “It’s practical and yet it’s fashionable. I might go into business making these. There’s a lot of people out there with flea issues. Even if your fleas don’t have plague, you still don’t want them sucking out your blood, right?”

“Plague?” Connie asked.

“She didn’t say plague,” I said. “She said
plaque
like in heart disease.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Connie said. “Are you shitting me?
Plague?
Like in
bubonic plague
? Like in
the black death
?”

“It’s not conclusive,” I said.

“I want one of those flea collars,” Connie said. “Do they really work?”

“Fuckin’ A they work,” Lula said. “They sell them at Petco. They wouldn’t sell them at Petco if they didn’t work.”

“Do you have any extra?” Connie asked her.

“I’ve only got this one ’cause I had to make sure it would fit, but I could make a Petco run and pick up a couple,” Lula said. “What would you like on yours? Do you want the diamond look or do you want some color in it?”

“I think color,” Connie said. “Something flattering to my skin tone. Maybe red.”

“I don’t want to bust anyone’s bubble here,” I said, “but the fleas could be hopping onto your feet and biting you in the ankle, and I don’t think a flea collar on your neck is going to be much help.”

“Ankle bracelet!” Lula said. “Everybody likes a ankle bracelet. I could hang a charm from it. A little heart or your initial.”

“I’d like my initial,” Connie said.

“This is big,” Lula said. “I could be the next Martha Stewart. Martha’s gonna be real angry that she didn’t think of this. Although I have to say she makes a damn good laundry basket. And I got a stellar cake decorating book by her.”

“I thought you didn’t have an oven,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” Lula said, “but I got the book. Everybody should have that book. Just in case the occasion arises to make a cake and you got an oven.”

“I have some new FTAs,” Connie said. “They came in first thing this morning. Nothing big. Nuisance roundups if you haven’t anything better to do.”

As it happened I had nothing better to do, so I stuffed them into my bag along with Jesus Sanchez, the lawn mower bandit.

“I don’t mind riding along with you while you pick up these losers,” Lula said, “so long as we can make a Petco stop. And then I got to go to the craft store to get some charms and more jewels.”

We took my car and did the Petco run first. After Petco we made a fast stop at the craft store.

“I can’t wait to put this all together,” Lula said when she was back in the Porsche. “I don’t know if you noticed but I got a knack for embellishment.”

“I noticed.”

“Who’d Connie give you? Anybody fun?”

“I read through them while you were in the craft store. We have a drunk and disorderly, a shoplifter, and a guy who stole a snake.”

“Say what?”

“It was a four-foot python, and he stole it from a pet store that sold exotic reptiles and birds.”

“Throw that one out the window. I bet he got a house full of snakes. I’m not going near him. I don’t care if he never goes to jail and Vinnie goes broke because of him.”

“How about the shoplifter?”

“Sure. Where’s this person live?”

I pulled the file out of my bag and gave it to Lula.

“Richard Nesman,” Lula said. “He lives downtown. Trevor Court. I know that area. It’s a street of nice townhouses.”

For the most part shoplifters are an easy catch. They aren’t usually violent and they aren’t usually armed. This is even true for the professionals, like Skookie Lewis, who takes whole stacks of T-shirts and transfers them out of the Gap and into the trunk of his 1990 Eldorado for resale. Lula has been known to shop out of Skookie’s trunk.

I parked in front of Richard Nesman’s townhouse and paged through his file. He was fifty-six years old, retired, married to Larry Staples.

“You see I don’t get that,” Lula said. “I got traditional values. I mean what’s this world coming to?”

“You don’t think gay men should marry?”

“Hell, I don’t care if they marry. I’m talking about the name. You get married and you take your husband’s name. Everybody knows that. Otherwise it’s too confusing. It’s chaos, you see what I’m saying?”

“Yes, but what if they’re both husbands?”

“Say what?”

“Gee, look at the time,” I said. “We should get moving if we want to get all this done before lunch.”

I went to the door to the townhouse and knocked, and a pleasant-looking silver-haired man answered.

“Richard Nesman?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You’ve missed your court date, and I’d like to help you reschedule.”

“I’m sure that’s a mistake,” Richard said. “I have it on my calendar in big red letters. It’s next Friday.”

“The court thought it was last Friday,” I said.

“That’s very upsetting. They should at least notify you if they change your date.”

Lula was standing behind me. “So what did you shoplift?” she asked him.

“Shoes.”

“Like boxes of Air Jordans or something?”

“Good heavens, no. These were Salvatore Ferragamo Sardegna Crocodile Driving Loafers.”

“Get out!” Lula said. “Those are excellent shoes. Those shoes retail at $2,400.”

“How do you know that?” I asked Lula.

“Sometimes I moonlight selling shoes. I help Skookie with the night shift. You gotta know what you’re selling.” She turned to Richard. “I could get you those same shoes for twenty-four dollars. You just gotta be careful if you wear them in the rain ’cause the color might run.”

“Is this your first arrest?” I asked him.

“Sadly, no. I’m afraid I have a compulsion to steal shoes. I like to think of it as a hobby, but not everyone sees it that way.”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” Lula said to him. “I like to bedazzle. You should switch your hobby to something more constructive like decoupage or bedazzlin’.”

We left Richard with the docket lieutenant, picked up our body receipt, and returned to the office.

“I made some phone calls,” Connie said, “and I found Jesus Sanchez. He’s living with his sister on Maple Street. So far as I can see he doesn’t have a job, so you might find him at home.”

Lula and I drove to Maple Street and started reading off numbers. It’s a long street on the north end of town and by the time we counted down to the Sanchez house we were just two blocks from Kiltman.

An older woman answered the door.

“He’s not here,” she said. “He’s walking the dog. They like to go to the school so Frank can make poopie on the grass.”

“Frank’s the dog?” Lula asked.

“Yes. Big dog. Big black dog. Very nice.”

We thanked the woman, went back to the car, and drove toward the campus. We cruised along the loop road and spotted Jesus and Frank sitting in the middle of the field, watching some students play Frisbee.

“Guess nobody told any of these people about the fleas,” Lula said.

“There haven’t been any reports of fleas or plague,” I said. “I think Pooka is hiding somewhere, and I’m sure he’ll be found before he has a chance to do any damage.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Pooka could be out at night sprinkling his bloodthirsty fleas all over the place. Just because he lost his fireworks don’t mean he’s given up on spreading the black death. I personally think they should be warning people.”

“I’m sure if they thought there was a real threat they would be taking precautions.”

“Not that it affects me,” Lula said. “I got my flea collar on, and if I gotta walk across the grass to arrest that idiot out there I’m putting my ankle bracelets on, too.”

I parked on the side of the road, and Lula pulled a flea collar out of its box and strapped it around her ankle.

“It don’t make the same fashion statement as when you put a charm on it, but it still looks okay. This here is the minimalist version,” Lula said.

Heaven help me, I couldn’t figure out if Lula was genius smart or flat-out stupid for wearing the flea collars. At a very basic level they made sense.

“Okay,” I said. “Give me a couple of the ankle-size collars.”

I mean, what did I have to lose besides some dignity? Better safe than sorry, I told myself.

Lula and I got collared up, and we tramped across the lawn to Jesus.

“Are you Jesus Sanchez?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “And this is my dog, Frank.” He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked up at Lula. “For a minute there I thought you were wearing a flea collar around your neck.”

“This here’s the latest in fashion accessories,” Lula said. “I’m starting a business in bedazzling them.”

“Are they expensive? My sister might like one. Do you need your lawn cut? I have a lawn mower.”

“Neither of us has a lawn,” Lula said. “And anyway we came to give you a ride.”

I introduced myself and fed him the line about rescheduling his court date.

“I guess that would be okay,” he said.

He stood, and when I tried to cuff him, he yelled
“Run!”
to Frank, and the two of them took off.

Lula and I ran after him, across the lawn. Lula lost steam and quit before she got to the loop road on the other side of the green space. I stuck with Jesus and Frank, but I was tiring and they weren’t. I chased them for a block and gave up. They were too fast, and the bond was too small. If I was determined to catch him I could stake out the sister’s house, but at this point I couldn’t care less about catching him.

I was bent at the waist, sucking air, and I saw a rusted-out, dented white van roll past. It turned at the corner and disappeared. I was pretty sure I saw Pooka behind the wheel. I walked to the corner and looked up and down the street. No van. I retraced my steps and I was halfway across the street on my way back to Lula when the van burst out of a driveway behind me. I jumped away, but the right front quarter panel clipped me, and I was punted about fifteen feet. I was caught totally off guard, feeling more shock than pain. I rolled onto my back, and I saw Pooka looking down at me.

“Look what fell onto the road,” he said, holding my stun gun.

He pressed the prongs against my arm, and twenty-eight million volts sizzled through my brain.

A stun gun doesn’t necessarily knock you out. It scrambles your neurons so you have no muscle control and there’s a lot of confusion. When the confusion cleared I was in the back of Pooka’s van, cuffed with what I assumed were
my
cuffs. I’d put the cuffs and the stun gun in my back pockets when I set out for Jesus Sanchez.

It was hard to tell what sort of damage had been done when I got hit. I had some stinging pain in my left knee and my jeans were soaked in blood. I wiggled my toes and moved my legs and nothing seemed broken. No bones sticking out anywhere. My elbow was killing me but it was behind my back, and I couldn’t see it. No headache. No double vision. I didn’t land on my head. One bright spot in my day.

It was a panel van. No seats in the back. Just me rolling around every time he made a turn. Plus some cartons of firecrackers, a box of blasting powder, and a couple empty aquariums. At least they looked empty. I suppose there could have been a few carsick fleas hunkered down in the bottom of the cages. I had to wonder what he did with the fleas that used to be in the aquariums. Not a good thought. Also hard to have good thoughts about my immediate future.

The van stopped and I heard a garage door roll open. The van eased into the garage and the door rolled back down. I was trying not to panic. I was taking deep breaths, telling myself to stay calm and alert. I had to wait for my opportunity. It would come. And people would be looking for me. Ranger and Morelli. I trusted them to find me. They were smart. They had resources.

Pooka left the driver’s seat, came around, and opened the back door.

“Fate,” he said. “Amazing, isn’t it? I’m driving down the street, and there you are. I was going to come get you, but you came to me.”

He grabbed my ponytail and pulled me out the door. I fell off the bed of the van onto the garage floor, and he dragged me up by my armpits. My knee hurt, my arm was on fire, my elbow hurt, and I was breathing hard, trying to control the pain and not cry. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to show fear or weakness. He pushed me in front of him, opened a side door, and pushed me into a grungy kitchen. Chipped red Formica countertops. Filthy linoleum floor. Decrepit stove and refrigerator. Stained avocado green porcelain sink filled with trash. Aquariums filled with fleas as far as the eye could see. The stench was sickening.