Explosive Eighteen(54)
“You were supposed to make sure she didn’t escape,” I said to him.
“Yeah, but she said she was a mama, and she was cryin’. So I let her go.”
“That’s so sweet,” Lula said to Buggy. “You’re a man with a good heart.”
“It’s not sweet!” I said. “Lahonka Goudge is a con artist and a felon. She steals people’s identities. And Mr. Potato Head here just let her go.”
“Do I get my Snickers now?” Buggy asked.
“You get nothing,” I said. “NOTHING.”
Buggy squinched his face up. “You promised.”
“The deal was you’d get Snickers after we delivered Lahonka. Did we deliver Lahonka?” I asked him. “No, we did not. So you get nothing. There are consequences to all actions.”
“Nuh-ah. I do lots of things without them consequences.”
“Not in my truck,” I told him. “There are consequences in my truck.”
“That’s a good policy,” Lula said. “Just think where we’d be if we didn’t pay attention to consequences. Like, there’s consequences if you don’t got bullets in your gun. And there’s consequences if you eat bad potato salad. And there’s consequences if you’re not taking precautions with your sweetie pie.”
I had a flash of panic recalling a small inadvertent lapse in my birth-control program in Hawaii.
“Are you okay?” Lula asked me. “You got real pale just now, and you’re sort of sweating.”
“I was thinking about consequences.”
“Yeah, they freak me out, too,” Lula said.
EIGHTEEN
I OFF-LOADED LULA AND BUGGY at the bonds office so Lula could get her car. Slasher and Lancer were still parked there, both of them sound asleep. Vinnie’s car and Connie’s car were gone, and the office was closed. Everyone left early on Saturday.
“I’m going to take you home in my Firebird,” Lula said to Buggy.
Buggy’s eyes got wide. “I want to drive.”
“Of course you do,” Lula said, “but this here’s a finely tuned machine.”
“Yuh.”
“Well, okay, since you’re so adorable,” Lula said. And she handed him her key.
“Get in fast, before he takes off without you,” I said to Lula.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Lula said. “He’s my big honey.”
The big honey rammed himself behind the wheel and took off.
“Hey!” Lula said. “Wait for me.”
“Get in the truck,” I told her. “I’ll catch him.”
Three blocks later, Buggy was stopped in traffic. Lula jumped out, ran to the Firebird, wrenched the passenger-side door open, and got in. Mission accomplished, as far as I was concerned.
I stopped at the supermarket and got a couple bags of groceries. Bread, milk, juice, peanut butter, olives, bag of chips, a frozen pizza, Vienna Fingers cookies, a bucket of assorted fried chicken parts, strawberry Pop-Tarts. I made one more stop and got a six-pack of beer and a bottle of red wine. I was going to have a feast tonight. I was going to have fried chicken, beer, and Vienna Fingers. Tomorrow, I’d have pizza and wine. No men. No Joyce. No Apple Dumpling. Just me and Rex and the TV.
I lugged the bags up to my apartment, set them on the kitchen counter, and a chill ran down my spine. The television was on. I grabbed the Glock and peeked into the living room. It was Joyce. “What the heck?”
“That was really shitty,” Joyce said. “You dumped me out in the hall. If I had any other place to go, I’d be there.”
“How did you get back into my apartment?”
“I had to climb up the stupid fire escape again. It’s getting old.” She came into the kitchen and looked at the food I was unpacking. “Where’s my chicken salad and wine?”
“I didn’t get chicken salad. I didn’t think you’d be here. But here’s the good news. The charges have been dropped against you.”
“Big deal. The charges were bogus. I was never worried about the charges.”
“What are you worried about?”
“There’s nothing green here,” Joyce said.
“Olives.”
“Olives are a fruit. Look at this mess. You haven’t got a single vegetable.”
“There’s tomato sauce on the pizza.”
“Another fruit.”
As if my life wasn’t enough in the toilet, Joyce Barnhardt was now smarter and obviously ate better than me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “What are you worried about?”
Joyce selected a mystery piece from the fried chicken bucket. “You ever hear of the Pink Panthers?”