Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

“Are you sure? Did you read the instructions?”

“This one didn’t come with no instructions. This was the economy model.”

I kept Rex’s cage on the kitchen counter. It was lost behind the bottles and cans, but I could see Rex running on his wheel for all he was worth, every now and then sneaking a peek at the pot on the stove.

The pot had gone beyond hissing and was now whistling a high keening wail. We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e Red sauce was sputtering out of the steam hole and the pot was vibrating.

“Don’t worry,” Lula said. “It’s just workin’ itself up to maximum pressurizin’.”

“It’s a modern miracle,” Grandma said.

I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I always worried when the little bulb at the top of anything went red. And I recognized the sound the pot was making. I felt like that sometimes, and it never ended well.

“Maybe you should turn the heat down a little,” I said to Lula.

“I guess I could do that,” Lula said. “It must almost be done. We’ve been cooking it for over an hour.”

Lula reached for the knob on the stove and at that exact moment there was a popping sound and the two latches flew off the lid.

“Holy cats,” Lula said.

“She’s gonna blow!” Grandma yelled. “Run for your life!”

Rex darted into his soup can. Lula and Grandma and I turned tail and bolted. And the lid exploded off the pot. BANG! The lid hit the ceiling like it had been launched from a rocket, and barbecue sauce was thrown onto every exposed surface. There was a hole in the ceiling where the lid had impacted, and sauce dripped from the ceiling and slimed down cabinets.

“Guess we aren’t having barbecue for dinner tonight,” Grandma said, creeping back to the stove to look in the pot.

Lula swiped at some of the sauce on the counter and tasted it. “Not exactly right yet, anyways.”

A splotch of sauce dripped off the ceiling onto Grandma’s head, and she retreated out of the kitchen.

“I feel like getting some of that Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind the Clucky Dinner Tray with the extra-crispy chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lula said. “I could use some chicken, and I got a coupon for the Clucky Dinner Tray.”

“What about my kitchen?” I asked Lula.

“What about it?”

“It’s a mess!”

Lula glanced at the kitchen. “Yeah, it don’t look too good. You’re gonna have to use one of them degreasers on it.”

“I’m not cleaning this kitchen.”

“Well, somebody gotta do it,” Lula said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “That would be you.”

“Hunh,” Lula said. “In my opinion, that pot manufacturer should be responsible for the cleanup. I got a faulty pot.”

“The manufacturer in China?” I asked her.

“Yeah. That’s the one. I’m gonna tell Lenny Skulnik he needs to get in touch with them.”

“And you think they’re going to send someone from China to clean my kitchen?”

“I see your point,” Lula said. “I guess I could do some cleaning, but I’d need a stepladder. Or else I’d need a big strong fireman to help me out.”

“I thought you pulled a gun on him.”

“Yeah, but he might be persuaded to overlook that if I let him wear my dress again.”

Twenty minutes later, Lula rolled her Firebird into the Cluck-in-a-Bucket parking lot. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is a fast-food hot spot in Trenton. The food is surprisingly good, if you like nice greasy chicken, heavily salted gelatinous potatoes, and gravy so thick you could walk across a vat of it. Lula, Grandma, and I gave it five stars. And the very best part of Cluck-in-a Bucket is the giant red, yellow, and white chicken impaled on a thirty-foot candy-striped pole that rotates high above the red-roofed building 24/7. Paris has the Eiffel Tower, New York has the Empire State Building, and Trenton has the revolving chicken.

On weekends and during the dinner rush, there was always some poor sap dressed up in a Mister Clucky chicken suit. He clucked at kids, and he danced around and annoyed the heck out of everyone. The guy who owned Cluck-in-a-Bucket thought the dancing chicken was great, but the truth was everyone would have been happy to pay more for the chicken if Mister Clucky never clucked again.

Lula was one of three people out of ten thousand who liked Mr. Clucky.

“Lookit here,” Lula said. “It’s the dancin’ chicken. I love that chicken. I like his red hat and his big chicken feet. I bet there’s a real cute guy inside that chicken suit. You’d have to be cute to get a job as Mister Clucky.”

I was betting there was a scrawny kid with a bad complexion inside the suit.

Lula got out of the car and went up to Mister Clucky. “You’re a big Mister Clucky,” Lula said. “You must be new. I got a bet with my friend that you’re a real cutie-pie. How’d you like to give us a look?”

“How’d you like my beak up your ass?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Fuck off, fatso.”

“Fatso? Did I hear you call me fatso? Because I better be mistaken.”

“Fatso. Fatso. Fatty fatty fatso.”

Lula took a closer look at Mister Clucky. “Hold on here. I recognize your voice.”

“No you don’t,” Mister Clucky said.

“Larry? Is that you?”

“Maybe.”

Lula turned to Grandma and me. “This is Larry, the fireman I was telling you about.”

“The one who wears dresses?” Grandma asked.

“Yep. That’s the one,” Lula said.

“Lots of men wear dresses,” Mister Clucky said. “It’s not against the law.”

“That’s real true,” Lula said. “And I’ve been reviewing our unfortunate date, and I decided you didn’t look all that bad in that turquoise cocktail dress. Now that I’m thinking about it, that gown might have brought out the color of your eyes.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. That gown was made for you,” Lula said. “In fact, if you want to let bygones be bygones I might let you try it on again.”

“I saw you had a beaded sweater that looked like it might match,” Mister Clucky said.

“Yeah, you can wear the sweater, too.”

He adjusted his clucky head and hiked up his privates. “I have to work until nine.”

“That’s fine,” Lula said. “Only thing is, I’m staying someplace else. I’ll get my food and come back with my new address.”

We put our orders in and moved to the pickup station.

“He seemed like a real nice chicken,” Grandma said.

“Yeah,” Lula said. “I guess he’s not so bad. And he’s a real good dancer in his chicken suit. And on top of that, I bet he could get me a discount on chicken. He just took me by surprise the other night, causing me to overreact about the dress.”

We all had the Clucky Dinner Tray, plus Lula supplemented hers with a side of biscuits and a bucket of barbecue chicken, which she said was research. She wrote my address on a napkin and handed it to Mister Clucky when we left.

“It must be fun to be Mister Clucky,” Lula said to him.

“Yeah, the suit is pretty cool, and I get to dance around. Mostly, I do it for spending money, though. I do okay as a fireman, but nice handbags don’t come cheap.”

We all piled into the Firebird, and Lula drove a couple blocks to the supermarket.

“I’ll be right back,” Lula said. “I just gotta get some cleaning products.”

“I’ll go with you,” Grandma said. “We could take another look at the barbecue aids.”

I stayed in the car and called Ranger. “Just checking in,” I said. “Anything interesting going on?”

“Nada. And you?”

“Lula and Grandma exploded a pot of barbecue sauce in my kitchen, Lula has a date later tonight with Mister Clucky, and it looks like I’ll be spending the night in your apartment again.”