I retraced my route down Broad to Liberty. I drove past the funeral home and backed into the driveway leading to the garage. The casket carrier was missing and the garage doors were closed.
“Now what?” Lula asked.
“Now we remove the casket from Ranger’s Jeep with as much dignity as we can manage, and then we get the heck out of here.”
“What if someone sees us and wants to know what we’re doing?”
“We’ll say Ziggy wanted to go for a ride, but decided to walk home.”
“That’s good,” Lula said. “That sounds like it’s true.”
“It’s
“Fuckin’ A.”
We hauled the casket out of the Jeep, set it down in front of a garage door, scurried back into the SUV, and took off.
TWENTY-NINE
I WAS TRYING to get Lula back to the bonds office, but I was inching along Hamilton, caught in the traffic jam created by the bad boys bus. I dropped her a block early, and I cut into the Burg, circled around, and came back to Hamilton on the other side of the gridlock. This had the additional benefit of saving me another pass by the seven-foot, double D cup Stephanie.
Ten minutes later I stepped out of the elevator in my apartment building and spotted Dave sitting in front of my door. There were two grocery bags on the floor next to him, and he was holding flowers.
He stood when he saw me. “I brought you flowers.”
I looked down at the bags. “And groceries?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d take a chance on you coming home hungry. I got off work, and I drove past the supermarket and felt inspired.”
I took the flowers and unlocked my door. “What’s on the menu?”
“Salad, scalloped potatoes, and lamb chops. You’re going to be in charge of the scalloped potatoes.”
“I’m not wearing the apron.”
“Too bad.” He unpacked the bags and set everything out on the counter. “You’re not living up to the fantasy.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Twirlers had reputations,” Dave said.
“What kind of reputations?”
“Good with a baton.”
Oh God, I could just feel the rhino hanging over me.
“Here’s the deal,” I told him. “I have two men in my life who carry guns. You don’t want to make them angry. You can cook but you can’t flirt. No double entendres. No more staring at my chest. No twirler fantasies.”
“I’m not giving up the twirler fantasies,” Dave said, “but I’ll substitute Alberta Zaremba for you.” He searched around and came up with the cutting board. “I’m going to fix the lamb chops. You can peel the potatoes and cut them into slices about an eighth of an inch thick.”
When I was almost done cutting, and he looked over my shoulder to check my progress.
“Perfect,” he said. “It’s too bad we didn’t know each other better when we were in high school.”
He was way too close. I could feel his breath on my neck, and the brush of his chest against my back when he leaned in.
“You’re too close,” I said. “Remember the men with the guns?”
He took a step back, and I cut the last slice. “Now what? Do I put them in the casserole dish?”
“Yes, but you need to butter it first.”
He took a stick of butter from the fridge and put it on the counter. He added butter, milk, and already-shredded Swiss cheese.
“Butter the dish, layer the potatoes, dot with small chunks of butter, sprinkle with the shredded cheese, and add another layer,” he said.
“Okeydokey.”
I sprinkled the last of the cheese on the potatoes and stood back to admire my work, thinking it looked pretty darn good.
“What’s next?” I asked him.
He took a beat to answer. “Milk.”
Thank goodness. For a single irrational moment I was afraid he was going to tear my clothes off. And I might have a hard time defending myself. He had height and weight on me, and he wasn’t in great shape, but he wasn’t in terrible shape either.
He added milk to the potatoes and slid the dish into the oven. “I have the salad and lamb chops ready to go. The only thing left is the wine.”
“What do we do with the wine?”
“We drink it until the potatoes are done.”
