“It could just be a fluke that your granny got the trots,” Lula said. “It could be one of them anemones.”
“I think you mean anomaly.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“We’re having ham tonight,” my mother said to me. “And pineapple upside-down cake. You should bring Joseph to dinner.”
“I’m not seeing him anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since weeks ago.”
“Do you have a new boyfriend?”
“No. I’m done with men. I have a hamster. That’s all I need.”
“That’s a shame,” my mother said. “It’s a big ham.”
“I’ll come to dinner,” I said. “I love ham.”
“No Joseph?”
“No Joseph. I’ll take his share home and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”
“I know what we can do with this casserole,” Lula said. “We can take it to the office and feed it to Vinnie. He don’t care what he puts in his mouth.”
I thought that sounded like a decent idea, so I carted the pulled pork out to Ranger’s Porsche and carefully set it on the floor in the back. Lula and I buckled ourselves in, and I headed for Hamilton Avenue.
“Holy cats,” Lula said, half a block away from the office. “You see that car parked on the other side of the street? It’s the bushy-headed killer. It’s Marco the Maniac. He’s sitting there waiting to kill me.”
“Don’t panic,” I said. “Get his license plate. I’m dialing Morelli.”
“It’s them or me,” she said, launching herself over the consul onto the backseat, powering the side window down. “This is war.”
“Stay calm! Are you getting the license number?”
“Calm, my ass.” And she stuck her Glock out the window and squeezed off about fifteen shots at the two guys in the car. “Eat lead,” she yelled, “you sons of bitches!”
Bullets ricocheted off metal wheel covers and bit into fiberglass, but clearly none hit their intended mark because the car took off and was doing about eighty miles an hour before it even got to the corner. I hung a U-turn in front of the bonds office, sending oncoming cars scrambling onto curbs, screeching to a stop.
Lula had discarded the flak vest, rammed herself through the side window, and was half in and half out, still shooting at the car in front of us.
“Stop shooting,” I yelled at her. “You’re going to kill someone.”
The car turned left onto Olden, and I was prevented from following by heavy traffic.
“Get back into the car,” I said to Lula. “I’ve lost them.”
“I can’t get back,” Lula said. “I’m stuck.”
I looked over my shoulder at Lula. All I could see was bright yellow ass. The rest of her was out the window.
“Stop fooling around,” I told her.
“I’m not fooling. I’m stuck!”
Cars were passing and honking.
“Your ass,” Lula said to the cars.
I checked her out in my side mirror and saw that not only was she stuck, but her boobs had fallen out of the scoop-neck sweater and were blowing in the wind. I turned onto a side street and pulled to the curb to take a look. By the time I got out of the car, I was laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks and I could hardly see.
“I don’t see where this is so funny,” Lula said. “Get me out of the window. I’m about freezing my nipples off. It’s not like it’s summer or somethin’.”
Short of lubing Lula up with goose grease, I didn’t know where to begin.
“Do you think it’s better if I pull or push?” I asked her.
“I think you should pull. I don’t think I’m gonna get my titties and my belly back through the window. I think my ass is smaller. And I don’t want no wisecrackin’ comment on that, neither.”
I latched on to her wrists, planted my feet, and pulled, but she didn’t budge.
“I’m losing circulation in my legs,” Lula said. “You don’t get me out of here soon, I’m gonna need amputation.”
I went around to the other side, got into the backseat, and almost fainted at the sight of the big yellow butt in front of me. I broke into a nervous giggle and instantly squashed it. Get it together, I told myself. This is serious stuff. She could lose the use of her legs.
I put my hands on her ass and shoved. Nothing. No progress. I put my shoulder to her and leaned into it. Ditto. Still stuck. I got out of the Porsche and went around to take another look from the front.
“Maybe I should call roadside assistance,” I said to Lula. “Or the fire department.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Lula said. And she farted.
“Jeez Louise,” I said. “Could you control yourself? This is Ranger’s Porsche.”
“I can’t help it. I’m just a big gasbag. I still got leftover barbecue gas.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and did a full minute-long fart. “Excuse me,” she said.
I was horrified and impressed all at the same time. It was a record-breaking fart. On my best day, I couldn’t come near to farting like that.
“I feel a lot better,” Lula said. “Look at me. I got room in the window opening.” She wriggled a little and eased herself back into the SUV. “I’m not so fat after all,” she said. “I was just all swelled up.”
My cell phone buzzed, and I saw from the screen that it was Morelli.
“Did I miss a call from you?” he asked.
“Yeah. Marco and his partner were parked in front of the bonds office. They were in a black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t get their license. I followed them to Olden and then lost them.”
“I’ll put it on the air.”
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Lula and I trudged into the office with the casserole and came face-to-face with Joyce Barnhardt.
Joyce had been a pudge when she was a kid, but over the years the fat had shifted to all the right places. Plus, she’d had some sucked out and added some here and there. Truth is, most of the original equipment had been altered one way or another, but even I had to admit the end result was annoyingly spectacular. She had a lot of flame-red hair that she did up in waves and curls. Hard to tell which of it was hers and which was bought. Not that it mattered when she swung her ass down the street in spike-heeled boots, skintight low-rider jeans, and a black satin bustier. She wore more eye makeup than Tammy Faye and had lips that were inflated to bursting.
“Hello, Joyce,” I said. “Long time no see.”
“I guess you could say that to Morelli, too,” Joyce said.
Lula cut her eyes to me. “You want me to shoot her? ’Cause I’d really like to do that. I still got a few bullets left in my gun.”
“Thanks, but not today,” I said to Lula. “Some other time.”
“Just let me know when.”
“So what are you doing here in the slums?” I asked her.
“Ask Connie.”
“Vinnie hired her again,” Connie said. “He decided you weren’t bringing the skips in fast enough, so he brought Joyce in to take up the slack.”
“I don’t take up slack,” Joyce said. “I take the cream off the top.”
From time to time, Joyce had worked for Vinnie, mostly because she was good with a whip and once in a while Vinnie felt like a very bad boy.
“What’s in the casserole?” Joyce asked.
I opened the lid. “It’s barbecue. Grandma Mazur made it for me for dinner. She knows how I love this recipe.”
Joyce spit on the pulled pork. “Just like old times,” she said. “Remember when I used to spit on your lunch in
