Джанет Иванович - Fortune and Glory

Arnold reached under his greasy T-shirt and grabbed the gun he had tucked under his waistband. “Dumb, fat bitch,” he said. “Eat this.”

Lula shrieked, panicked, and threw her gun at him, and we ran for the car. Arnold unloaded a couple of rounds that missed Lula and me but took out my side mirror.

I chirped the tires getting out of the lot and headed for the office.

“He said I was fat,” Lula said. “Can you imagine?”

“That’s what bothers you about that whole fiasco?”

“That’s not all. I’m bothered that I never got my chicken nuts, even though the one I ate didn’t live up to my expectations.”

“What about the orgasm in your mouth?”

“Hunh, I suppose you never lied about a orgasm? I was being complimentary. And I’ll tell you another thing. They should do something about gun control in this state. They let just any bat-shit crazy idiot carry a gun.”

“ You carry a gun,” I said.

“That’s different. I’m almost a police officer. I’m a quasi-law-enforcement person.”

“You realize you left your gun back there?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to replace it. I’ll detour to the hair salon on Stark when I go home today. Lolita Sue always has a nice collection. I get all my guns from her.”

“You don’t get them at a gun shop?”

“Hell, no. You gotta fill out all those forms and go through a bunch of crap. All I do with Lolita Sue is give her a couple bucks.”

I dropped Lula at the office, and I called Ranger.

“I need you,” I said to him.

“Babe,” Ranger said. “I’m your man.”

“I don’t need you that way . I need you to help me break into a safe.”

Okay, that was sort of a fib. Every woman I knew lusted after Ranger. Including me. He was six feet of hard-muscled perfection. He was magic in bed. And he had a magnetic pull that was beyond the physical. On the flip side, he wasn’t a candidate for marriage, and he had a code of conduct that didn’t necessarily conform to the national norm. I’d decided a while ago that it was best to ignore and deny Ranger-lust.

“I have a lot of skills,” Ranger said. “Safecracking isn’t one of them.”

“But you know someone.”

“I do.”

“I’m on the hunt for the La-Z-Boys’ treasure. Supposedly there are clues locked up in the safe at the Mole Hole.”

“There’s a little Italian bakery on Henry Street,” Ranger said.

“Carlotta’s.”

“Meet me in the lot behind the bakery at ten o’clock tonight.”

“Okay, but…”

The Man of Mystery disconnected.

I thought about the files in my bag. Potts, Rugalowski, and Trotter. It was midafternoon. I could make another try at a capture. Potts was the obvious choice. He was guilty of a nonviolent crime. And he was a first offender, so he wasn’t up to speed on the system. When I told him that I was merely taking him downtown to get a new court date, he might actually believe me. There was the gluten issue, but he’d probably have clothes on, so an accident wouldn’t be an entire disaster. Plus, I kept a shower curtain in the back for blood and other body fluid emergencies. My bounty hunter skills are lacking, but at least I’m prepared for fugitive leakage.

CHAPTER SIX

Potts was thirty-seven years old and living with his parents in a house on Porter Street. A spouse wasn’t listed on his bond application. His parents put up the bail bond money. He was unemployed.

Porter Street was about a mile from the bonds office in a neighborhood very much like the Burg. Small houses, nonexistent front yards, and backyards big enough to hold a Weber grill and a trash can. Mostly blue-collar, two-income families or retirees who had paid off their mortgage.

I parked across from the Potts house and watched for a while. A Ford Escape was in the driveway that led to a single-car garage. A rusted-out Sentra was at the curb. I was guessing everyone was home. Not my favorite scenario. I hated to make apprehensions that involved parents. It always felt sad that they had to see their kid led away in cuffs. It didn’t matter that the kid was forty-two or that the parents were relieved to see him taken away. It still felt sad to me. If it was my child, I would be destroyed. Even Rodney Trotter’s mother, in her La La Land pot-hazed delusion, had to shed a tear at having her son locked up.

I crossed the street and rang the Pottses’ doorbell. A skinny guy with a large nose and mousey brown ponytail answered.

“George?” I asked.

“Oh jeez,” he said. “I know who you are. How did you find me?”

“You gave this as your address,” I told him. “It’s on your bond application.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “So, what’s up?”

“You missed your court date. You have to reschedule.”

“Did they tell you I have PTSD?”

“No. Were you in the military?”

“No. College. It was a bad trip.”

“Okay, but you still need to reschedule.”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t want to involve my parents. They’re sort of freaked-out about me. My mom won’t go to the bakery anymore because… you know.”

“I do,” I said. “I know. That was an unfortunate emergency.”

“Yes! OMG, you understand. That’s so amazing. Thank you.”

“Sure, but you still have to reschedule your court date.”

“I get it,” Potts said. “How do we do this?”

“I can take you to the courthouse and get you re-bonded.”

“That would be cool. That would be amazingly cool. And we don’t have to involve my parents?”

Here’s the dilemma. If I say his parents won’t be involved, it’s not a fib, but the reality is he won’t get out of jail unless he finds someone else to post his bond. If I tell him the whole story, he probably won’t get in my car.

“What do you want to hear?” I asked him.

“Something good. Like you want to come in and hang out in my room with me.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I have a PlayStation and a big tub of cheese puffs. They’re made from corn and the cheese dust is lactose free.”

“No. Never.”

“That’s harsh. Never is a long time.”

“Are you going downtown with me, or do I have to get your parents involved?”

“Wow,” he said, “you play hardball.”

I pulled cuffs out of my back pocket and clapped one on his wrist, and he squealed like a pig.

“Get it off! Get it off!” he said, jumping away. “I don’t like it. I’m feeling anxiety. I’m feeling panic. I’m feeling faint. Call 911. I need a doctor. I need a paper bag. I need a joint.”

“I haven’t got any of those things,” I said. “Do you want me to get your mother?”

“No! Not my mother. I’m feeling better. I just need a moment. You surprised me. I’m not good with surprises.”

“I should put the other bracelet on you,” I said.

“Is that necessary?”

“They like it at the police station. It’s a security thing.”

He held his hand out, so I could put the cuff on him. “I guess you never know who’s going to be dangerous,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“I’m not very dangerous. I’m mostly fearful and I have allergies.”

I led him across the street and got him settled into the backseat of my car.

“I’m allergic to cats and bananas and garlic and marigolds and wool and macadamia nuts and wheat gluten and cucumbers,” he said. “There are other things, too. There’s a long list of things I’m allergic to, but I’m not allergic to peanuts. For instance, I could have a peanut butter sandwich as long as it’s on gluten-free bread.” He was silent for a long moment. “Do you think they have gluten-free bread in prison? I get the poops if I eat wheat bread.”