bullets.
I shrugged into a hooded sweatshirt, locked my apartment, and ran to the car. I stopped at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on my way to the office and got two giant-size buckets of extra crispy chicken. Hold the coleslaw and biscuits.
Connie and Lula were already milling around on the sidewalk when I arrived. Lula was holding the box of stink bombs, and Connie had the rocket launcher and two tote bags. I parked behind Connie’s Camry and realized I was going to have to make a car decision. If we took the Mercedes, I’d have Rangeman backing me up, but I’d also have witnesses to the whole ridiculous scheme. Push for the Camry, I thought. Best not to have witnesses. I got out with my chicken buckets and beeped the SUV locked.
SEVENTEEN
LULA PERKED UP at the sight of the chicken. “That smells like extra crispy,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”
“I bought it for Mr. Jingles,” I told her. “We’re going to use it to lure him away from the money.”
“Mr. Jingles won’t mind one less piece,” Lula said.
“You’re the one who’s going to be leading him away with the chicken,” I told her. “You don’t want to smell like extra crispy.”
“In that case, you got a point,” Lula said. “I’ll pass on the chicken.”
“I think we should take the Camry,” I said to Connie. “It’s the least memorable of the cars.”
“I agree,” Connie said.
We put all the equipment in the backseat with me, and Connie headed for Chopper’s apartment. She drove down Cotter Street, pausing in front of the plumbing supply warehouse. Lights were off. No cars parked in front. Locked up for the night. We looked up at Chopper’s windows. No sign of activity. Connie drove around the block and turned into the alley. She sat at idle behind Chopper’s apartment, and we all took a couple deep breaths. I stuck my gun in my jeans, and I took one of Connie’s tote bags.
“Here’s what I think we should do,” I said. “Connie will stay in the car for a fast getaway, and Lula and I will go into the apartment. I gather up the money, and Lula keeps Mr. Jingles busy with the chicken. Simple, right?”
“Yeah, as long as Mr. Jingles likes extra crispy,” Lula said.
Lula and I got out of the Camry and scurried across the yard and up the stairs. I found the key, opened the door, and stuck my head in.
“Hello?” I called.
No answer. Also no sound of alligator yawning, alligator running, or alligator sniffing out food.
I crept in and looked around. No stacks of money sitting out on the kitchen counter, dining table, end table. And still no sign of alligator, although the apartment smelled gamey. I walked farther into the apartment and there he was… over six feet of alligator behind the couch that sat in the middle of the room. His eyes were open, and he was looking at me.
“G-g-g-gator,” I whispered to Lula.
“I see him,” Lula said. “Where you want to go first? You want me to get him to the side of the room so you can look in the bedroom?”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
“Fetch,” Lula said. And she threw a piece of chicken across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a big grease splotch on the wall.
Mr. Jingles swiveled his head toward the chicken but didn’t move.
“What the heck kind of gator is this?” Lula said. “This here’s Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken. You don’t let Cluck-in- a-Bucket chicken hit the floor and lay there. This here’s extra crispy.”
“Throw one closer.”
She threw a piece right at him. It hit him in the head and bounced off. Snap, he ate it.
“Did you see that?” Lula said. “He didn’t even taste that chicken. What’s with that?”
“Drop one a couple feet over.”
“You bet,” Lula said. “Here you go, big guy. Here’s a wing.”
The gator moved his body in slow motion, making a right turn, and then he lunged and snap. Good-bye, wing.
“Whoa,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he can do that lunge thing. That’s like the death lunge.”
She threw a leg close to the wall, and Mr. Jingles scrabbled after it, moving faster, catching on to the game.
“Hurry up and go around the other side of the couch,” Lula said to me. “Good thing we got two buckets of chicken. Mr. Jingles isn’t exactly a dainty eater.”
I ran around the couch, keeping my eyes on Mr. Jingles. I scooted into the bedroom and shut the door. No stacks of money out in the open here, either. I went through the dresser, the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. I’ve seen drug money collected, and it’s almost always in a backpack or a gym bag. I looked in the bathroom. Very bare-bones. No drug money. I carefully opened the door and looked out. Mr. Jingles was stalking Lula around the couch. Lula was throwing chicken everywhere, and Mr. Jingles would snap it up and come back at Lula.
“I’m running outta chicken,” Lula yelled. “What the heck am I supposed to do when I run outta chicken?”
“How much chicken do you have left?”
“Four pieces.”
“Try to get him back to the other side of the room so I can get out of the bedroom.”
“Okay, but hurry up. I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at me.”
Lula threw a thigh across the room. Mr. Jingles gave the chunk of chicken a cursory glance and turned his attention back to Lula.
“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I think he’s figured out the chicken comes from the bucket.”
“Then throw the bucket across the room. Just don’t leave me trapped here.”
Lula whistled. “Here, boy. Nice Mr. Jingles. Go get the bucket.” Lula wound up to throw the bucket, and Mr. Jingles lunged at her. “Yow!” Lula said, staggering back, falling over the ottoman.
The chicken bucket flew out of her hand, hit the open door, and bounced off onto the porch. Mr. Jingles rushed after the bucket, ate the bucket, ate the remaining three pieces, and lumbered down the stairs.
I was out of the bedroom and Lula was up off the floor, and we were mouths-open, watching Mr. Jingles step onto the cement pad at the bottom of the stairs and amble across the yard to the Camry. Connie frantically powered the window up and looked at us with her what-the-fuck expression. Mr. Jingles nosed the Camry, gave Connie the eye, and waddled off down the alley.
“This ain’t good,” Lula said. “Chopper gonna be mad you let his alligator loose.”
“I’m not worried about Chopper. I’m worried about the dogs and cats and kids in the neighborhood.”
“Maybe we should call the alligator police,” Lula said.
Someone screamed half a block away.
“Okay, I guess we don’t have to call the police,” Lula said. “And it looks like Connie’s on the phone. I don’t imagine she’s ordering pizza. We should finish up here.”
“I can’t find the money.”
“Maybe Chopper took it with him.”
“That’s not the pattern.”
We looked around the room.
“Not a lot of places to hide a big bag of money,” Lula said.
“The couch,” I said to her. “Mr. Jingles was always by the couch.”
We pulled the cushions off. No money.
“Help me lift it,” I said to Lula.
We picked the couch up and looked under. Large duffle bag, zippered shut. Chopper had carved out part of the couch. I snagged the bag and looked inside. Lots of money.
A car horn beeped from the alley. Connie was telling us to get out of the apartment.
“We’re done here,” I said to Lula. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I hear a siren. I bet it’s the alligator police.”
