Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“We’re missing something,” I said. “What about Jimmy’s car?”

“It’s probably in the garage under the building,” Grandma said. “He had a slot for it. He was number seven.”

I punched G on the elevator button, and the doors opened to the garage.

“It’s the black Honda Civic,” Grandma said.

“Say what?” Lula said. “He drove a Honda Civic? Not that it isn’t a good car, but it’s not what I would expect. The people I know who kill people drive big cars. Hummers and monster trucks. Of course, they’re all gangbangers and dealers. They gotta make a statement. It’s like look how big my car is and that’s nothing compared to my dick. I guess it’s different with mob killers. They’re more in the professional category, keeping a low profile. Or it could be that Jimmy didn’t have any money. Maybe wet work doesn’t pay anymore.” She stood in front of the car. “It’s not even new. This here’s an old Civic.”

“It ran good,” Grandma said. “And he kept it clean inside.”

I tried the door and found it unlocked. Probably because forty-five people had already looked through it for the keys.

We did our own search, using our cellphone flashlights, looking under the seats and in the trunk.

“This is depressing,” Grandma said. “I don’t like looking for the keys. It’s not what it was about with Jimmy and me. I don’t even know if I want his money anymore.”

“I get what you’re saying,” I said to Grandma, “but we’re looking for the keys to keep you alive. The money is a different deal. You have to figure that one out yourself.”

“We should have a change of pace and go looking for the shoplifter,” Lula said. “That would perk Grandma up.”

Grandma joining us on an apprehension? Disaster! “No, no, no,” I said. “I’m sure Grandma has things she needs to do at home.”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Grandma said, “but a shoplifter doesn’t sound exciting. Don’t you have something better? Like a bank robber or a terrorist?”

“I haven’t got any of those,” I said. “I have a hijacker and attempted murder.”

“Tell me about the attempted murder,” Grandma said.

“Barry Strunk. He got screwed at the Cluck-in-a-Bucket drive-thru and pulled the minimum-wage worker through the drive-thru window. He had the kid on the ground, and he was shoving a Double Clucky Burger down his throat and yelling This is all wrong . It’s all wrong!”

“That’s questionable attempted murder,” Lula said.

“Strunk was also yelling to the Clucky kid that he was going to kill him. They have it on Clucky tape. He said it a lot. And according to this report, the kid almost choked to death.”

“The problem here is that this man had unrealistic expectations. It’s a known fact that you get fucked at the drive-thru.”

“Let’s go after this one,” Grandma said. “I want to see the man who got fucked at the drive-thru.”

“He didn’t really get fucked ,” Lula said to Grandma. “You know that, right? He just got figuratively fucked.”

“Good enough for me,” Grandma said.

I read the file out loud. “Barry Strunk. Forty-two years old. Divorced. Works at the button factory. No priors. Looks crazy in his mug shot.”

Lula and Grandma leaned in and looked at the mug shot.

“I could tell right off that this boy needs anger management,” Lula said. “He’s got big frowny marks in his forehead and his mouth is all snarly.”

“He should be getting off his shift at the button factory soon,” I said.

“We could catch him in the parking lot,” Lula said.

“The parking lot is a mess when there’s a shift change,” I said. “I’d rather wait for him at his house. He lives in one of the little row houses on E Street.”

“I didn’t bring my cuffs,” Grandma said.

“That’s okay,” I told her. “I have cuffs. And I don’t expect him to be difficult. He’s not a career criminal. He just had a bad day.”

I didn’t entirely believe this, but I didn’t want Grandma going all Dirty Harry on me.

We’d been driving around in Lula’s car with the Rangeman guys on our bumper.

Grandma was in the back seat, and from time to time she’d turn and wave at the SUV.

“Ernie and Slick are with us today,” Grandma said. “Slick’s real name is Eugene, but he likes to be called Slick. He doesn’t usually ride on patrol, but Ranger was short.”

“How do you know all this?” Lula asked.

“I go out to talk to them sometimes. They gotta sit in the car all day doing nothing but stare at our house, so I bring them cookies and sodas. Slick is Ranger’s electronics guy. He sets up the security systems. He was a safecracker before he got a job with Ranger.”

Parking was tight on E Street. Lula squeezed into a space two houses down from Strunk’s, but the Rangeman SUV was out of luck. I got a text message that they would be circling the block until something opened up.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a stakeout,” Grandma said. “How’s this gonna go down?”

“When we see Strunk walk up to his door—”

“Hold on,” Lula said. “Where’s he going to park? We just took the last parking spot.”

“These streets all have alleys in the back,” Grandma said. “There’s usually parking there.”

I checked my watch. “The shift is getting out now. You two stay here, and I’ll run around to the back. Call me if you see him. He’s driving a white Taurus.”

I jogged around the block and walked the alley until I came to Strunk’s house. There were no garages back here, but there were small yards where people parked. I didn’t see a white Taurus. I took a position behind a pickup truck next door to Strunk’s place.

A woman stuck her head out of a second-floor window and yelled at me. “This is private property. What are you doing by my truck?”

I took a couple steps away from the truck. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

“That’s a load of bull crap. You think I’m stupid? The only friend you’re waiting for is the one who’s gonna help you steal my truck. I’m calling the police.”

There wasn’t a lot of cover in the alley. There were a couple cars way at the end, but that was too far from Strunk’s back door. There was a weathered privacy fence that ran for about fifteen feet between Strunk’s house and the crazy truck lady’s house. An overgrown, undernourished azalea bush clung to life at the end of the fence. I moved to the azalea bush and watched for the white Taurus. If I saw the car, I’d duck down into the bush and hope for the best.

After five minutes there was no Taurus and no messages from Grandma or Lula. I heard a door close behind me in the crazy truck lady’s yard. I turned to see what was going on and was hit with a blast of water from her garden hose.

“You think I couldn’t see you sneaking around in the azalea bush?” she said. “I see everything. Nothing gets past me. I got a gun too. I’m counting to three, and then I’m going to start shooting.”

This is when it all came back to me. The dissatisfaction with my life. The desire to be somewhere else doing something else. Anything else.

“I’m waiting for Barry Strunk,” I said, turning my back against the water, trying to shield myself with the bush and the broken-down fence.

“Strunk is a loser. Barry the Loser, that’s what I call him. I should have known you were with Strunk when I saw the blue hair. You’re all nutcases and losers.”

This is just great. The crazy lady thinks I’m a loser. My worst fear is confirmed by a woman wearing fluffy pink slippers, soaking me with her garden hose.