We scrambled to our feet and almost ripped the front door off its hinges trying to get out. We ran the two and a half blocks to Lula’s Firebird, and Lula burned rubber from the curb. Neither of us said anything until we were parked in front of Vinnie’s office.
“It wasn’t that I was scared,” Lula said. “It’s just I didn’t want to get blood on this here new sweatsuit. You know how hard it is to get blood out of this stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said, still breathing hard. “Blood is a bitch.”
“Okay, so maybe I was a little scared,” Lula said. “I mean, hell, that motherfucker would of shot us dead! Shit. What was he thinking of? What’s the matter with him?”
“I’ve got to get a new job,” I said to Lula. “I don’t like getting shot at.”
“I tell you, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m starting to get pissed off. Who the hell does that jerk think he is, anyway? I’ve got a mind to call him up and tell him what I think.”
I handed Lula the file folder. “Be my guest. The phone number’s on the first page. And while you’re at it, tell him he’d better get his butt over here, because next time someone raps on his door it’ll be Ranger.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said. “Ranger’d root that little pecker out. Ranger’d stomp on his miserable ass.”
“Boy, I really hate being shot at,” I said. “I really
Lula wrenched her door open. “I’m not taking this shit. I’m not standing still for this kind of treatment.”
“Me either,” I said, getting caught up in the moment. “That creep needs to be locked up.”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “And we’re just the ones to do it!”
I wasn’t sure about that last part, but I let it slide, and Lula and I marched into the office like storm troopers invading Poland.
Connie looked up from her paperwork. “Uh-oh, what’s going on?”
“We’ve just been shot at,” Lula said, lower lip protruding a good two inches. “Can you believe it? I mean, I’ve been caught in drive-bys. I’m used to that shit. This shit was different. This shit was directed at me personally. I didn’t like this shit one bit. This shit was offensive, you know what I’m saying?”
Connie raised her eyebrows. “Leroy Watkins?”
“Shot at us through a closed door,” I said.
Connie nodded her head. “And?”
“And we ran away,” I said. “Lula was worried about bloodstains on her new warm-up suit.”
Lula had the file in one hand and Connie’s phone in the other. “That Leroy Watkins isn’t getting away with this. I’m gonna call up his ass and tell him what I think. I’m gonna tell him I’m not taking this shit.”
Lula punched in some numbers and stood hand on hip.
“I want to talk to Leroy,” she said into the phone.
Someone responded at the other end, and Lula leaned forward. “What do you mean I can’t talk to him? He just almost dropped a cap in me, and now he’s not available to talk to me? I’ll available his ass.”
The phone was returned to Connie after five more minutes of discussion.
“Snake says he didn’t know it was us,” Lula said. “He said he’d go down to court with us if we come back.”
“Who’d he think he was shooting at?” I asked Lula.
“He said he didn’t know who he was shooting at. He said it just pays to be careful these days.”
“He destroyed his door!”
“Guess a man in Snake’s business got to worry.”
I grabbed my bag and hung it on my shoulder. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
“The filing is starting to get out of hand,” Connie said to Lula. “This won’t take you all day, will it?”
“Hell no,” Lula said. “We’ll be back before lunch.”
I pulled on gloves but thought twice about a hat. You wear a hat in the morning and you look like a fool for the rest of the day. Not that I looked all that wonderful this morning. It was more that I didn’t want to compound the problem. Especially since Morelli was sitting in my parking lot. Just in case the unthinkable happened, and I got arrested…I didn’t want to have hat hair for my mug shot.
We rumbled off to Stark Street, each of us lost in our own thoughts. My thoughts ran mostly to warm beaches and half-naked men serving me long, cool drinks. From the stony expression on Lula’s face I suspected her thoughts ran a lot darker.
Lula pulled up to the curb in front of Shirlene’s apartment building and heaved herself out of the car. We stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the third-floor windows.
“He said he wasn’t going to shoot at us, right?” I asked, just to be sure.
“That’s what he said.”
“You believe him?”
Lula shrugged.
Ranger would go in with gun drawn, but that wasn’t my style. I felt stupid with a gun in my hand. After all, what purpose did it serve? Was I going to shoot Leroy Watkins if he refused to get in the car with me? I don’t think so.
