Джанет Иванович - Fortune and Glory

I got behind the wheel of the CR-V and handed the Trotter file over to Lula.

“It says here that he lives on Stiller Street,” Lula said. “That’s across town by the public housing projects.”

I was having a hard time focusing on Trotter. My brain was stuck on Benny and the treasure. I drove over the railroad tracks and turned right, toward the train station.

“We’re going the wrong way,” Lula said. “You must be taking the scenic route.”

“I want to ride past the Mole Hole. It’s not that much out of the way.”

“What do you expect to see there?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

“Are we going in?” Lula asked.

“Do you think we should?”

“I wouldn’t mind. We could get some of those curly cheese fries. We left in a hurry this morning. You were all worried about what’s-his-name.”

“Lou Salgusta.”

I was half a block from the Mole Hole and Lula leaned forward in her seat. “Look who’s coming out of the titty bar,” she said. “It’s the crazy woman that went down into the tunnel.”

I pulled to the side of the street and idled.

“She doesn’t look singed or anything,” Lula said. “Her hair isn’t smoking. Hard to tell from this distance but her shoes don’t even look muddy.”

The woman walked through the parking lot and got into a black Mercedes sports car. She pulled out of the lot and I followed her.

“You think she’s got something to do with the treasure?” Lula asked.

“I don’t know. I think it’s weird that she mysteriously showed up and went down into the tunnel.”

“Yeah, who does that with their Fendi backpack and Louboutins? Those Louboutins didn’t even look like knockoffs. They looked like they were made out of real quality leather.”

The Mercedes took a right turn, drove two blocks, and took another right. It sailed through a yellow light, and I got the red.

“I think she made you,” Lula said.

“Yep.”

“Not her first rodeo,” Lula said.

“Yep, again.”

Twenty minutes later I was on Stiller Street. Narrow, two-story, redbrick row houses lined both sides of the street for three blocks. The brick was grimy with age. Paint was blistered and peeling on window trim. Front yards were postage stamp size, and most were neglected. It was easy to find Trotter’s house. His van was parked at the curb.

“This isn’t much of a neighborhood for a doctor,” Lula said. “You’d think he’d have a nicer house. I’m guessing he does a lot of pro bono butt jobs.”

“He isn’t a doctor,” I said, parking behind the van. “He’s a con man.”

“Even more reason why he should have a certain lifestyle. He doesn’t have any overhead. He just has a lame-ass van to service. And he doesn’t have to buy malpractice insurance. He probably don’t have to fill out any Medicare forms, either, since it’s a questionable cosmetic procedure.”

Lula and I crossed the small yard, I rapped on Trotter’s front door, and a woman answered. Hard to tell her age. Somewhere between fifty and infinity. Her face was deeply lined and artificially tanned. Her lips looked like they might explode at any minute. A self-rolled joint was stuck between the lips. She was wearing flip-flops and a magenta tent dress that came to mid-calf.

“Mrs. Trotter?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“I’m looking for Rodney. I’d like to speak to him.”

“He’s in the kitchen having a late lunch.”

The living room was dark and cluttered. Too much furniture. Stacks of newspapers. Giant box-store-size jars of snacks. Pretzel nuggets, dill pickles, Hershey miniatures, popcorn, Twizzlers, Cheetos, beef jerky. A gruesome collection of taxidermied animals. Squirrels, cats, foxes, skunks, a small pig, a weasel.

“The snack jars I get,” Lula said, “but what’s with the creepy dead animals?”

“Rodney says taxidermy relaxes him after a hard day of surgery,” the woman said. “It’s his hobby.”

The kitchen was just as cluttered as the living room. Boxes of cereal were stacked on the counters beside jugs of vinegar, family-size jars of peanut butter, badly stuffed rodents with their teeth bared, loaves of bread, and bags of cookies.

A thin man with balding black hair and excessively bloodshot eyes was at the kitchen table. He was wearing a tight silky black shirt, and he was drinking Jose Cuervo tequila without benefit of a glass or straw.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said, eyeing Lula. “You looking for a booty job? I got an opening this afternoon. Soon as I’m done with lunch.”

“First off, I’m not your sweetie,” Lula said. “Second, do I look like I need any work? My booty is perfect just like the rest of me. And even if I wasn’t perfect, I wouldn’t let a drunk punk-ass like you touch me.”

“Sticks and stones,” he said.

“Rodney Trotter?” I asked.

“Yeah. How about you, cutie? You looking to get beautified? I got a special going this week on lips.” He squinted at the woman. “Hey, Ma, show her your lips.”

His mother did duck lips at me and shuffled off into the living room.

“I could give you lips like that,” Trotter said.

“Gee, hard to pass up, but no,” I told him. “I’m looking to take you downtown to reschedule your court date.”

“No can do. I got a big day ahead of me.”

His eyes rolled back in his head, he fell off his chair, and crashed to the floor.

“Hunh,” Lula said. “You think he’s dead?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I think he passed out from too much lunch.”

“This man should not be practicing medicine,” Lula said. “He’s a mess. He shouldn’t even be practicing fake medicine.”

“Mrs. Trotter!” I yelled. “We have a problem.”

The woman came into the kitchen and looked down at Rodney. “Sometimes he takes a nap after lunch,” she said.

“We could drag him out, throw him into your backseat, and turn him over to the police,” Lula said to me. “Problem is, the police might not want him being that he’s unconscious. They’ve been getting picky about that lately.”

I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket. “We can secure him and let him sleep it off at the office.”

I reached for his wrist. His eyes blinked open and he scrambled away from me.

“That was a short nap,” Lula said.

“Get away from me,” Trotter said. “I know my rights. I’m a doctor.”

“You aren’t no doctor,” Lula said, “and you got no rights. You signed them away when you got bonded out of jail.”

Trotter lurched to his feet and grabbed a large syringe off the kitchen counter. “One step closer and I’ll inject you.”

“What the hell is that?” Lula asked. “It looks like something you’d use on a horse.”

“Tools of the trade,” he said. “I can work miracles with this baby.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Put the syringe down.”

“Get out of my house or someone gets this in their face,” he said. “I’ll make your nose look like it should be a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

“You want me to shoot him?” Lula asked.

“No!” I said. “We don’t shoot people.”

“ Sometimes we shoot people,” Lula said.

“Not this time. He isn’t armed.”

“He looks armed to me,” Lula said. “He’s threatening to rearrange my nose with butt filler.”

“Don’t get too close to him,” I said. “Let me handle this.”

“How are you going to handle it? You going to let him pump up your nose? I’ll tell you how I’m handling it. I’m leaving. If I can’t shoot him, then I’m out of here. Adios. Au revoir. Sayonara.”

Lula and I backed out of the kitchen, not taking our eyes off Trotter. We hurried through the living room, left the house, and jumped into my car. Okay, Stephanie, I told myself, so this wasn’t your finest hour, but you’ll have another chance to capture him. It’s all about dogged perseverance, right?