leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. “Holy cow, who let one go? What’s that smell?”
I held up the garbage bag. “My clothes were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They need washing.”
“Leave them on the back porch,” my mother said. “I’ll do them later.”
“We got coffee cake,” Grandma said to me. “And there’s some breakfast sausages in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I just ate breakfast.”
My mother and grandmother looked at me.
“You ate breakfast?” my mother asked. “I thought you broke up with Joseph.”
Morelli isn’t Martha Stewart, but it’s a known fact he’s more organized than I am. Morelli almost always has food in his house. When we’re a couple, and I spend the night, I eat breakfast at his little wooden kitchen table. Sometimes it’s leftover pizza and sometimes it’s a frozen toaster waffle. And Morelli is always the one to start coffee brewing, because Morelli is always the first one up. His kitchen is almost identical to my mom’s, but it feels entirely different. He’s refinished the wood floor and put in new cabinets. The lighting is pleasant, and the counters are for the most part uncluttered in Morelli’s house. My mom’s kitchen hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. Some new appliances, and new curtains on the back window. The floor is vinyl tile. The counters are Formica. The cabinets are maple. And the kitchen smells like coffee, apple pie, and bacon even when my mother isn’t cooking.
“I ate breakfast at home,” I said.
“Are you pregnant?” Grandma asked. “Sometimes women do strange things when they’re pregnant.”
“I’m not pregnant! I went shopping and got orange juice and Rice Krispies, and I ate breakfast at home. Jeez. It’s not like I never eat at home.”
“You only got one pot,” Grandma said.
“I had more pots, but they got wrecked when my stove caught fire.” I put the garbage bag on the back porch and took a seat at the table with Grandma. “Maybe just one piece of coffee cake,” I said.
Two pieces of cake and two cups of coffee later, I pushed back and stood.
“I need Lula to help me decorate this big black boot,” Grandma said. “I think it needs some of that glitter, or some rhinestones. Lula has a real flare for fashion.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, I was looking for a parking place in front of the bonds office. Cars were lined up on the curb. Some were double-parked. Some were angled in nose first. Soccer mom vans, junkers, tricked-out Escalades, Civics, and F150s. Mooner’s RV was parked in front of the bookstore. A crowd of people was milling around on the sidewalk. Hard to tell what was going on from the road. And then I saw the sign as I drove past. SIDEWALK SALE.
I parked half a block away and walked back to where Lula was directing pedestrian traffic.
“You want genuine first-class handcuffs, you just go to table number three,” she called out. “You could have a lot of fun with these handcuffs. They fit just right around a bedpost. Handguns are table six. We got a nice selection. Kitchen appliances and jewelry’s inside.”
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“Sale,” Lula said. “Sunflower wouldn’t negotiate, so we’re sellin’ everything. You want a lawnmower? It’s gonna go cheap.”
“I haven’t got a lawn.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“Where’s Connie?”
“Inside. She’s doing credit card sales. I’m strictly cash out here.”
Lula was dressed in four-inch black micro-fiber heels decorated with multicolored glitter, a short purple Spandex skirt, a gold metallic tank top, and she was wearing a Tavor Assault Rifle as an accessory.
“What’s with the gun?” I asked her.
“It’s in case some of these people get unruly.”
A big bald guy in a wifebeater shirt and cami cargo pants came up to Lula.
“Hey, Lula,” he said.
“My man,” Lula said to him.
“I need a gun,” he said to Lula. “Are these legal?”
“Do you want them to be?” Lula asked.
“No. Shit, what would I want with a legal gun?”
“Don’t know,” Lula said, “but these suckers are whatever the hell you want them to be. Cash only.”
I snaked my way through the crowd to Connie. “What’s going on?” I asked her.
Connie stepped back, away from a woman checking out a waffle iron. “Sunflower won’t deal. He wants all the money, so Lula and I came up with the idea for the sidewalk sale. This stuff was all taken in exchange for bond and never reclaimed. It was just taking up space in the back room, so we figured we’d sell it.”
“Lula’s selling weapons out there!”
“That’s great,” Connie said. “They’re a high-ticket item.”
“I think it’s illegal to sell guns like this.”
Connie craned her neck and looked through the front window at Lula. “It’s okay,” Connie said. “That guy’s a cop.”
“How much are these dishes with the roses on them?” a woman wanted to know.
“Twenty dollars,” Connie said.
A second woman elbowed in. “Wait a minute. Those are my dishes. I gave them to you so my nephew could get out of jail.”
Connie looked at the sticker on the bottom of a plate. “We’ve had these dishes for a year and a half.”
“It don’t matter. They’re mine.”
“Where’s your nephew?” Connie asked.
“Tennessee.”
The first woman handed Connie a twenty and started stacking up her dishes.
“Police!” the second woman yelled. “There’s a robbery going on here.”
Lula ran in with her gun. “Did someone say robbery?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I told Lula. “Don’t shoot anyone.”
“It was no misunderstanding,” the second woman said. “Those are my dishes. This old lady here was gonna walk out with them.”
“Old? Excuse me,” the first woman said. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken. And these are my dishes. I saw them first.”
They both had hold of a plate, and they were nose to nose, eyes narrowed.
Mooner strolled over with a plate of brownies. “Ladies, have a bite of a Moon Man brownie. We’re selling them out front, but these are free samples. I made these brownies in my very own test kitchen in the Love Bus.”
We all took a time-out so the ladies and Lula could have a brownie.
“These are real good brownies,” Lula said. “These are doughnut-quality brownies.”
“I changed my mind,” woman number one said. “I don’t want the dishes. I’m buying brownies.”
“I don’t want the dishes, either,” woman number two said. “I never liked them anyway.”
Lula took a second brownie and went back to patrol the sidewalk.
“If she keeps eating brownies, we’re going to have to take her keys away,” Connie said. “I don’t know exactly what’s in Mooner’s brownies, but my guess is they’re at least sixty percent controlled substance.”
“I’m surprised Sunflower wouldn’t take what you offered for Vinnie.”
“He was in a vicious mood. He said we were lucky he was holding at a million three. And we have until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Did you discuss how the trade-off was going to work?”
“No. He didn’t want to talk. He was really cranky. He gave me his demand and hung up on me.”
“Guess things aren’t going good in Sunflower Land.”
Lula pushed her way back to us.
“Watch out. Comin’ through. Outta my way,” she was saying. “I just sold all our guns,” she said to Connie. “We got any more?”
“No, that was it,” Connie said. “I saved the good stuff for our personal use. I have them locked down in the back room.”
