Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“Yeah, but what if I have to shoot him to stop him? What if he shoots at me?”

“He tried to kill a kid with a double cheeseburger. There was no gun involved.”

“I could handle a double cheeseburger,” Lula said.

I dropped her off, drove around to the front, and found a parking place. I hung my cuffs from my back pocket, shoved a pepper spray canister into my sweatshirt pocket, and walked up to the house. I heard the bolt slide locked just as I was about to knock.

I rapped on the door and called out that I was looking for Barry Strunk.

The answer came back muffled.

“He’s not home. No one’s home.”

“Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“I represent your bail bondsman. You missed a court date and I want to help you reschedule.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Crap,” he said. “What do I have to do? Do I have to sign something?”

“You have to go downtown with me and get a new date from the clerk.”

Silence.

“Barry? Hello?” I banged on the door and tried the handle. “Open the door, and I’ll let you see my blue hair.”

Okay, that was stupid, but I thought it was worth a shot. I had my ear to the door, and I couldn’t hear any sounds inside the house. Strunk was either crouched down, playing possum, or on his way to the back door and his car. I was betting on the latter. I called Lula to tell her to watch for him.

“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “I’m on the job. Nobody gets past Lula when she’s on the . . . what the hell?”

There was a lot of screaming and the phone went dead. I jumped into the Buick, raced around the corner, and turned into the alley. Lula was standing in the middle of the road. She was soaking wet, and the white Taurus was gone.

“I hate this job,” she said. “This job sucks. Who else has to put up with this kind of abuse? Almost nobody.”

“You’re wet,” I said.

“No shit! Some crazy lady turned her garden hose on me. I was getting ready to take down Strunk, and next thing I’m freaking soaking wet.”

“I told you not to get near the truck.”

“Yeah, but I needed a place to conceal myself.”

“Looks like he got away.”

“He almost ran me over. I could be dead now with truck tire tracks on me. What’s with people these days? There’s no consideration. They’d just as soon run over a person.” She shook herself like a wet dog. “I’m done. I’m wet, and I’m cold, and this hand-bedazzled top I’m wearing is dry-clean only. That Strunk is going to be in big trouble if his neighbor ruined my top.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll pop the trunk.”

“Say what?”

“You’re going to get in the trunk, right? I mean, you’re all wet.”

“I’m not riding in no trunk.”

“Then you’re going to have to take your wet clothes off. I have vintage upholstery in this car.”

Lula stripped her bedazzled top off, and her massive breasts flopped out.

Eeeek!

“I was just yanking your chain,” I said. “Put the top back on!”

Lula got into the Buick naked from the waist up, and buckled herself in. The retrofitted seatbelt disappeared into her cleavage, and her nipples stuck out like giant Keurig K-Cups.

“It’s better this way,” she said. “I can dry out my top, so it won’t get wrecked.”

“Jeez Louise. It’s not better. It’s . . . distracting. And it might be illegal to flash nipples that big when you’re in a Buick.”

“All the ladies in my family have big nipples,” Lula said. “It’s one of our best features. We got nipples a person could be proud of.” She glanced over at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with little nipples. I know you got little nipples on account of when we had to chase that guy on the nudie beach, and I got to see your nipples.”

I looked down at myself. I couldn’t see my nipples, but I knew they were there. One more thing to add to the list. Not only did I have a depressing job. Now I had to worry about my little nipples.

“Your nipples are dainty,” Lula said. “You got dainty pink nipples.”

This sounded a lot better than plain old little nipples, but I still wouldn’t mind getting off the whole nipple topic.

“I’m done for the day,” I said. “What about you? Do you have plans for tonight?”

“I’ve gotta work on my blog.”

“You have a blog?”

“Everybody’s got a blog,” Lula said. “Don’t you have a blog?”

“No.”

“Well, I have a blog and I’m thinking about being an influencer. I could influence the shit out of stuff.”

“No doubt.”

I turned onto State Street, drove two blocks, and spotted the white Taurus parked at a 7-Eleven. Strunk was walking out the door with a monster drink and a hot dog.

“It’s him!” Lula yelled. “That’s our guy.”

I pulled into the lot and before I came to a complete stop, Lula was out of the car, charging Strunk.

“You almost ran me over, you sonnovabitch!” Lula yelled.

Strunk froze with his mouth open and his eyes bugged out at the sight of the giant nipples and bouncing breasts coming at him.

Lula got to arm’s length, and he snapped out of his catatonic state and threw his soda at her and hit her in the face with the hot dog. He turned to run, and I tackled him, taking him down to the ground. Lula jumped in and snagged his shirt and wrenched him off me. We got him facedown, and Lula sat on him while I cuffed him.

We hoisted him to his feet and stuffed him into the Buick’s back seat. Cars were driving by and honking at Lula, and Lula would give them a V-for-victory gesture and thumbs-up.

“You should put your shirt back on,” I said to Lula. “You’ll get arrested if you show up at the police station like that.”

“No way can I put it on now,” Lula said. “I’ve got sticky titties from him throwing soda on me. You have to take me home first so I can get another shirt.”

“I’ll drop you at the office,” I said. “Your car is there. I can get Strunk to the police station on my own.”

—

Strunk was sullen and silent in the back seat all the way to the office. Lula got out, and after I drove for two blocks, Strunk started growling and thrashing around.

“Hey,” I said, “get a grip back there.”

“I hate you,” he said. “And you’re ugly.”

“I’m not ugly,” I told him. “I have blue highlights in my hair, and I have dainty pink nipples.”

“Let me see them.”

“You can look at my highlights all you want.”

“I don’t want to see the highlights. Show me your nipples.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll hold my breath and make myself throw up in your car.”

“People don’t throw up from holding their breath. You have to stick your finger down your throat to throw up, and your hands are cuffed.”

“I could stick my tongue down my throat. It’s already halfway there.”

He made gagging sounds like he was trying to get his tongue down his throat.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“I hate you.”

“You already said that,” I told him.

“Yeah, but I mean it. If my hands weren’t cuffed, I’d punch you. You’re ruining my day.”

“Like the Clucky kid.”

“Yes! Do you know what I do all day? I work the line at the button factory. Little tiny buttons roll past me, and I sort out the ones that are cracked or discolored. All day. Five days a week. Can you imagine? That’s my life. So all day long I’m thinking about a Double Clucky Burger. It’s my reward for getting through my hideous, boring, mind-rotting day. I would prefer drugs over the Clucky Burger, but I can’t afford drugs. I can only afford a shitty Clucky Burger. I get myself through the day, and I go to the drive-thru and order my food, and it comes out all wrong. How could anyone get a Double Clucky Burger wrong? It’s probably made by robots like me.”