Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

“I hear you,” Lula said. “I’m goin’ home, and I’m goin’ to bed.”

I DROVE BACK to my apartment, changed into comfy worn-out flannel pajamas, and was about to settle in to watch television and bang, bang, bang. Someone was hammering on my door. I looked through the security peephole at Lula.

“I been shot at,” she said when I let her in. “I’m lucky I’m not dead. I parked in front of my house, and I got out of my car, and just as I got to my front porch, these two guys jumped out of the bushes at me. It was the guys who whacked Stanley Chipotle, and the one had a meat cleaver, and the other tried to grab me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Fuckin’ A. Don’t I look serious? I’m friggin’ shakin’. Look at my hand. Don’t it look shaky?”

We looked at her hand, but it wasn’t shaking.

“Well, it used to be shakin’,” she said. “Anyways, I hit the one asshole in the face with my pocketbook, and I kicked the other one in the nuts, and I turned and ran back to my car and took off. And one of them shot at me while I was driving away. He put bullet holes in my Firebird. I mean, I can stand for a lot of shit, but I don’t tolerate bullet holes in my Firebird. What kind of a moron would do that, anyway? It’s a Firebird, for crissake!”

“But you’re okay?”

“Hell yeah, I’m okay. Don’t I look okay? I’m just freakin’ is all. I need a doughnut or something.” She went to my kitchen and started going through cabinets. “You don’t got nothin’ in here. Where’s your Pop-Tarts? Where’s your Hostess Twinkies and shit? Where’s your Tastykakes? I need sugar and lard and some fried crap.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yeah. I called them from my car. I told them I was coming here.”

I got out my only fry pan, put a big glob of butter in it, slathered a lot of Marshmallow Fluff between two slices of worthless white bread, and fried it up for Lula.

“Oh yeah,” Lula said when she bit into the bread and Fluff. “This is what I’m talkin’ about. I feel better already. Another four or five of these, and I’m gonna be real calm.”

There was a polite knock at the door, and I opened it to two uniforms. Carl Costanza and Big Dog. I made First Communion with Carl, and Big Dog had been his partner long enough that I felt like I made communion with him, too.

“What’s up?” Carl said.

“I been shot at,” Lula said. “That’s what’s up. And before that I almost got my head chopped off. It was terrifyin’.”

Carl looked at me. “This isn’t like the time she fell in the grave and thought the devil was after her, is it?”

“Your ass,” Lula said to Carl.

“Just asking,” Carl said.

“I got bullet damage to my Firebird,” Lula told him. “It wasn’t done by no devil, either. It was done by a certified killer.”

Morelli appeared behind Carl. Morelli looked like he’d fallen asleep watching the ballgame, was jolted awake by dispatch, and reluctantly dragged his ass out to investigate. His black hair was overdue for a cut and curling along his neck in waves. His five o’clock shadow was way beyond shadow. He was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a faded navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“I’ll take it,” he said to Carl and Big Dog.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“I’m assigned to the Chipotle murder. Dispatch got a report of attempted murder by the same perps.”

“That’s right,” Lula said. “I almost got my head chopped off. It was the same two idiots. And the one had a meat cleaver. Just like he used on Stanley Chipotle. Biggest meat cleaver I’ve ever seen. And this one with the meat cleaver was giggling. Not normal giggling, either. It was eerie. It was like horror movie giggling.”

“Why didn’t they chop your head off?” Morelli wanted to know.

“I kicked the one in the nuts and smashed my pocketbook in the other one’s face.”

“I guess that would slow them down,” Morelli said. “Dispatch said this happened in front of your house?”

“Yeah. They were waiting for me. See, here’s what happened. Stephanie and her granny and me were makin’ ribs, only the ribs had to go in the oven, so they didn’t cook right. Personally, I been thinking about it and I bet that oven was faulty.”

Morelli blew out a sigh and went to my refrigerator. “There’s no beer in here,” he said.

“I need to go to the store.”

Morelli closed the door and went back to Lula. “And?”

“And we had three special sauces, but it was hard to tell what was what since the ribs were all the same color when they come out of the oven.”

“Has this got anything to do with Chipotle’s murderers?”

“I’m gettin’ to it,” Lula said.

Morelli looked at his watch. “Could you get to it faster?”

“Boy, you’re Mr. Cranky Pants tonight. What, do you got a date or something?”

I felt a small twinge of pain in the vicinity of my heart, and I narrowed my eyes at Morelli.

Morelli was hands on hips. “I haven’t got a date. I just want to go home and see the end of the game.”

“I guess there isn’t much more to tell,” Lula said. “They were waiting for me. They come at me with the mother of all cleavers. I kicked the guy in his nuts and got back in my car. And they shot at me when I drove away. And now my Firebird’s full of bullet holes.”

“I checked it on my way in,” Morelli said. “I counted two in the right rear quarter panel and one in the back bumper. I don’t suppose you noticed what kind of car these guys were driving?”

“I wasn’t paying attention to that.”

“Any distinguishing features? Anything you can add to your description of them?”

“One of them’s got a broken nose and the other’s walkin’ funny.”

“Did they say anything to you?”

“Nope. The one just was giggling.”

“I’ll send a uniform to check on your house, but it’s unlikely your assailants are still there,” Morelli told Lula.

“Okay, but I’m not going back there. I’m still freaked out. I’m staying here.”

“Good luck with that one,” Morelli said.

I cut my eyes to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He blew out another sigh. “Forget it.”

I felt my eyes get squinchy and my lips compress. “What?”

“You’re not exactly the easiest person to live with these days.”

“Excuse me? I happen to be very easy to live with. You’re the one who has issues.”

“I don’t want to get into this now,” Morelli said. “Call me when you calm down.”

“I’m calm!” I yelled at him.

He gave his head a shake and moved to the door. He turned, looked at me, and shook his head again. He murmured something I couldn’t catch, and he left.

“He’s hot,” Lula said, “but he’s a pig. All men are pigs.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No, but it’s a point of view to keep in mind. You don’t want to go around thinkin’ shit is your fault. Next thing you know, they got you makin’ pot roast and you’re cutting up your MasterCard.”

“I don’t know how to make pot roast.”

“Good for you,” Lula said. “I don’t suppose you got anything that would fit me. Like a big T-shirt. I’m all covered in barbecue sauce, and I’m beat.”

I gave Lula an extra quilt and pillow and a worn-out T-shirt that belonged to Morelli. I said good night and I closed the door to my bedroom. I didn’t especially want to see Lula in Morelli’s T-shirt. Lula was a lot shorter than Morelli and a lot wider. Lula wearing Morelli’s T-shirt wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

I woke up in a panic a little after midnight, thinking someone was sawing through my bedroom door. A couple seconds later, my head cleared, and I realized it was Lula snoring in my living room. I put my pillow over my head, but I could still hear Lula. Three hours later, I was thrashing around, plotting out ways to kill her. I got out of bed, marched into the living room, and yelled in her face.