"Sure we can," Lula said. "You're just a little pipsqueak. We could make you sing 'Yankee Doodle' if we wanted. 'Course, we wouldn't do that on account of we're professionals."
I pulled a pair of cuffs out of my back pocket and clamped one of the bracelets on Briggs.
Briggs looked at the cuff like it was the flesh-eating virus. "What's this?"
"Nothing to be alarmed about," I said. "Standard procedure."
"Eeeeeeeee," Briggs shrieked. "Eeeeeeeee."
"Stop that!" Lula yelled. "You sound like a girl. You're creeping me out."
He was running around the room now, waving his arms and still shrieking. "Eeeeeeeee."
"Get a grip!" Lula said.
"Eeeeeeee."
I made a grab for the cuff but missed. "Stand still," I ordered.
Briggs bolted past Lula, who was dumbstruck, rooted to the floor, and then ran out the door.
"Get him," I yelled, rushing at Lula. "Don't let him get away!" I pushed her into the hall, and we thundered down the stairs after Briggs.
Briggs sprinted through the small lobby, through the front door, and into the parking lot.
"Well, damn," Lula said, "I can hear his little feet going, but I can't see him. He's lost in between all these cars."
We separated and walked into the lot, Lula going one way and me the other. We stopped and listened for footsteps when we got to the outer perimeter.
"I don't hear him anymore," Lula said. "He must be going tippytoe."
We started to walk back when we saw Briggs round the corner of the apartment building and race inside.
"Holy cow!" Lula said. "He's going back to his apartment."
We ran across the lot, barreled through the door, and took the stairs two at a time. When we got to Briggs' apartment the door was closed and locked.
"We know you're in there," Lula yelled. "You better open this door."
"You can huff and you can puff, but you'll never get through this door," Briggs said.
"The hell we won't," Lula told him. "We could shoot the lock off. And then we're gonna come in there and root you out like a rodent."
No answer.
"Hello?" Lula called.
We listened at the door and heard the computer boot up. Briggs was going back to work.
"Nothing I hate more than a wise-ass dwarf," Lula said, hauling a .45 out of her purse. "Stand back. I'm gonna blast this door open."
Drilling Briggs' door held a lot of appeal, but probably it wasn't practical to shoot up an apartment building for a guy who was only worth seven hundred dollars.
"No shooting," I said. "I'll get the key from the super."
"That isn't gonna do you no good if you're not willing to shoot," Lula said. "He's still gonna have the security chain on."
"I saw Ranger pop a door open with his shoulder."
Lula looked at the door. "I could do that too," she said. "Only I just bought this dress with them little spaghetti straps, and I wouldn't want to have a bruise."
I looked at my watch. "It's almost five, and I'm having dinner with my parents tonight."
"Maybe we should do this some other time."
"We're leaving," I hollered through Briggs' door, "but we'll be back. And you'd better be careful of those handcuffs. They cost me forty dollars."
"We would have been justified to shoot our way in on account of he's in possession of stolen property," Lula said.
"Do you always carry a gun?" I asked Lula.
"Don't everybody?"
"They released Benito Ramirez two days ago."
Lula stumbled on the second step down. "That's not possible."
"Joe told me."
"Piece-of-shit legal system."
"Be careful."
"Hell," Lula said. "He already cut me. You're the one who has to be careful."
We swung through the door and stopped in our tracks.
"Uh-oh," Lula said. "We got company."
It was Bunchy. He was parked behind us in the lot. And he didn't look happy.
"How do you suppose he found us?" Lula asked. "We aren't even in your car."
"He must have followed us from the office."
"I didn't see him. And I was looking."
"I didn't see him either."
"He's good," Lula said. "He might be someone to worry about."
* * * * *
"HOW'S THE POT roast?" my mother wanted to know. "Is it too dry?"
"It's fine," I told her. "Just like always."
"I got the green bean casserole recipe from Rose Molinowski. It's made with mushroom soup and bread crumbs."
"Whenever there's a wake or a christening, Rose always brings this casserole," Grandma said. "It's her signature dish."
My father looked up from his plate. "Signature dish?"
"I got that from the shopper's channel on TV. All the big designers got signature this and that."
My father shook his head and bent lower over his pot roast.
Grandma helped herself to some of the casserole. "How's the manhunt going? You got any good leads on Fred yet?"
"Fred is a dead end. I've talked to his sons and his girlfriend. I've retraced his last steps. I've talked to Mabel. There's nothing. He's disappeared without a trace."
My father muttered something that sounded a lot like "lucky bastard" and continued to eat.
My mother rolled her eyes.
And Grandma spooned in some beans. "We need one of them psychics," Grandma said. "I saw on television where you can call them up, and they know everything. They find dead people all the time. I saw a couple of them on a talk show, and they were saying how they help the police with these serial murder cases. I was watching that show, and I was thinking that if I was a serial murderer I'd chop the bodies up in little pieces so those psychics wouldn't have such an easy job of it. Or maybe I'd drain all the blood out of the body and collect it in a big bucket. Then I'd bury a chicken, and I'd take the victim's blood and make a trail to the chicken. Then the psychic wouldn't know what to make of it when the police dug up a chicken." Grandma helped herself to the gravy boat and poured gravy over her pot roast. "Do you think that'd work?"
Everyone but Grandma paused with forks in midair.
"Well, I wouldn't bury a live chicken," Grandma said.
No one had much to say after that, and I felt myself nodding off halfway through my second piece of cake.
"You look all done in," Grandma said. "Guess getting blown up takes it out of you."
"I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Maybe you want to take a nap while your grandmother and I clean up," my mother said. "You can use the guest room."
Ordinarily, I'd excuse myself and go home early, but tonight Bunchy was sitting across the street, two houses down, in the Dodge. So leaving early didn't appeal to me. What appealed to me was to make Bunchy's night as long as possible.
My parents have three bedrooms. My grandma Mazur sleeps in my sister's room, and my room is used as a guest room. Of course, I'm the only guest who ever uses the guest room. All my parents' friends and family live within a five-mile radius and have no reason to stay overnight. I also live within five miles, but I've been known to have the occasional disaster that sends me in search of temporary residence. So my bathrobe hangs in the guest room closet.
"Maybe just a short nap," I said. "I'm really tired."
* * * * *
THE SUN WAS slanting through the break in the curtains when I woke up. I had a moment of disorientation, wondering if I was late for school, and then realized I'd been out of school for a lot of years, and that I'd crawled into bed for a short nap and ended up sleeping through the night.
I rolled out of bed fully dressed and shuffled down to the kitchen. My mother was making vegetable soup, and my grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, scrutinizing the obituaries.
Grandma looked up when I came in. "Weren't you at the garbage company yesterday, checking on Fred?"
I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from her. "Yep."
"It says here this woman, Martha Deeter, who was the receptionist at RGC, was shot to death last night. Says they found her in the parking lot of her apartment building." Grandma slid the paper over to me. "Got a picture of her and everything."