do something about your juju.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I didn’t have anything in mind. I’m just sayin’.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what constituted juju, but I had the general picture, and Lula had a point. Lately, my luck sucked. It had been excellent when I arrived in Hawaii, and somewhere mid-vacation it turned bad.
A flash of black caught my eye, and I looked out the big plate-glass window in time to see the Lincoln stop and double-park in front of the coffee shop. Lancer and Slasher lunged out of the car, stormed into the coffee shop, and stood over me, glaring.
“You stole our wallets,” Lancer said.
I took the wallets off the table and handed them to Lancer. “Identity check.”
“You better not have put anything on my credit card,” Slasher said.
“That’s insulting,” Lula said. “What does she look like, anyway? She’s a successful businesswoman. She don’t need your dumb-ass credit card. She got her own credit card. You need to learn some manners. Who the heck are you?”
“Sylvester Larder, also known as Sly Slasher,” I said.
He took his wallet from Lancer. “Everyone calls me Slasher.”
“Is that a work-related nickname?” Lula asked. “On account of you don’t look like a slasher. You look more like a insurance salesman. Or one of those guys who sets out the grapefruits in the supermarket.”
Lancer gave a bark of laughter.
“Real funny,” Slasher said. “Why don’t you ask her if you look like a Lancelot?”
I stood up from my seat. “Gotta go,” I said. “Sorry about your wallets and rearranging your neurons.”
“You better play ball with us before we have to get rough,” Lancer said. “We need results. Our boss doesn’t like being disappointed.”
Lula and I left the coffee shop, piled into the Buick, and headed for Buggy’s house.
“They could be in big trouble if their boss doesn’t like being disappointed,” Lula said. “And I don’t think they believe you about not having that photograph. You really don’t have it, right?”
“Right.”
“How come everyone thinks you have it, if you don’t have it?”
“Because I used to have it.”
“Like you used to have a ring on your finger,” Lula said.
I felt my blood pressure edge up a notch. “Give it a rest, okay?”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
I turned onto Pulling Street and saw my RAV4 at the curb in front of Buggy’s house.
“I guess he borrowed your car,” Lula said.
“Something like that.”
“We gonna do our bounty hunter thing on him?”
“Yeah. I’ll use my stun gun, we’ll cuff him when he goes down, and we’ll drag him into the Buick. It has a bigger backseat.”
“Let’s do it. I’m there,” Lula said. “If you notice, I’m wearing black again today. I’m in the Ranger zone. WHAM!”
I was glad Lula had such a positive attitude, because I was experiencing some self-doubt. And I appreciated that Lula was in the zone, although I suspected her outfit was from her S &M ’ho collection, since she was wearing over-the-knee black leather boots with four-inch heels, a black leather miniskirt, and a skintight black leather bustier.
I parked, and Lula and I went to the door. I had the Flexi-Cuffs ready, and I was holding the stun gun.
“You distract him,” I said to Lula. “When he looks over at you, I’ll stun him.”
“Sure,” Lula said. “I’ll distract the hell out of him.”
I rang the bell and Buggy answered.
“Howdy,” he said, opening the door, looking out at me. “What’s up?”
“I came to get my car.”
“I’m thinking about keeping it. I like it a lot.”
“You can’t just go around keeping cars,” Lula said to him.
“Yu-huh, I can,” he said, glancing at her but turning back to me.
“Tell him why he can’t do that,” I said to Lula.
“Because,” she said.
“That’s it?” I said to her. “That’s all you got?”
“Because it’s not right,” she said to Buggy. “You gotta buy a car. You can’t take other people’s.”
Buggy wasn’t paying attention to Lula. Buggy was looking at me, his brow drawn together, his mouth tight. “I
“He’s not paying attention to you,” I said to Lula.
“Don’t I know it,” she said. “What’s this boy’s problem?” She leaned forward and yelled at him. “Hey! You!”
“Yuh,” Buggy said.
Lula popped one of her giant boobs out of her black leather bustier. “What do you think of this?”
“It’s big,” Buggy said.
“You bet your ass,” Lula told him.
I whipped the stun gun out, pressed it against Buggy’s arm, and hit the go button.
“Ow,” Buggy said.
His eyes didn’t roll back into his head. He didn’t crash to the ground. He didn’t go down to his knees.
I blasted him again.
“That stings,” Buggy said. “Stop it.”
“Must be about body weight,” Lula said. “You need the shit they make for elephants.”
Buggy grabbed the stun gun out of my hand and threw it into the bushes bordering the house. “Go away,” Buggy said. “And you better not take my car, or that would make me mad.”
No point getting goofy over this, I told myself. Just very calmly take the RAV, go home, and make a reassessment. Surely there’s a way to capture this man. A big net, maybe. A rhinoceros tranquilizer dart. Get him to follow a trail of cheeseburgers leading to the police station.
I scrounged through the bushes, found my stun gun, handed Lula the key to the Buick, and smiled pleasantly at Buggy. I turned, walked to the RAV, plugged my key in, and opened the driver’s side door. Buggy grabbed me from behind, and tossed me into the street.
“Hey, idiot,” Lula said to Buggy. “You can’t do that to her. That’s friggin’ rude.”
“I’ll do whatever I want,” Buggy said. “It’s my car now.”
Lula hauled her Glock out of her purse and aimed it at Buggy. “At the risk of gettin’ too personal, I got a delicate intestinal condition today, and you’re not making it any better. And I already explained to you about how car ownership works. Now, you need to get your lard butt outta here, or I’ll put another hole in it.”
“You don’t scare me,” Buggy said. “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“Says who?” Lula said. “I shoot unarmed men all the time.”
I scrambled to my feet, came up behind Buggy, pressed the stun gun prongs to his neck, and held the button down. Buggy went dead still, sank to his knees, and wet his pants.
“Third time’s a charm,” Lula said.
I slipped the plastic Flexi-Cuffs around his wrists and secured them behind his back. Buggy was still on his knees, his eyes were glazed, and he was drooling.
“How are we gonna get him in the car?” Lula stared at him. “He must weigh three hundred pounds, and he got wet pants. We need a forklift to move him. Maybe one of them skyhooks.”
“Maybe now that he’s cuffed, he’ll be reasonable,” I said.
Buggy’s eyes snapped into focus. “Grrrrr,” he said.
