EIGHT
I LEFT MORELLI, drove back to my parents’ house, and retrieved Briggs.
“I got to take a look at tonight’s cake,” he said. “It’s awesome. Chocolate cake and chocolate frosting. And the frosting is real thick.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t carve off a chunk when no one was watching.”
“Someone was always watching. What are we doing now?”
“I don’t know. I’m at a dead end with Poletti.”
“If you haven’t got anything special to do, maybe we could drive past my apartment. The last time I saw it, fire trucks were all over the place and it was still smoking.”
I rolled out of the Burg and followed Hamilton to Grand Avenue. I parked across the street from Briggs’s building, and we looked over at it in silence. It was an ugly redbrick building built in the fifties. Three stories. Briggs lived on the second floor, and it was clear which apartment was his. The windows had been blown out in the explosion and were now patched with plywood. Thick black soot stained the brick on the second and third floors. The building’s front door was open, and hoses snaked out and dumped grimy gray water into the gutter. Two fire restoration vans were parked at the curb.
“Do you want to go in?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I just wanted to take a look at the building. No point going in. I got a call from the insurance adjuster, and he said there was nothing left. He said the explosion blew a hole in the ceiling, and the fire spread to the third floor. Lucky no one was home there, either. No one got hurt.”
“Sorry about your apartment,” I said. “It’s hard to lose all your stuff like that.”
“You’ve had your place blown up a couple times,” Briggs said. “It must have been bad for you too.”
“The first time it happened was the worst. I was really rattled. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.”
“Hard to believe,” Briggs said. “You’re a magnet for disaster. I figured you were one of those kids who had their bike run over by the garbage truck.”
“Only once,” I said. “But it was never blown up.”
“Yeah, there’s something about getting your shit blown up that takes it to a whole new level.”
“I’ve pretty much gone through my bag of tricks for tracking down Poletti,” I said. “I think it’s time to hang you out there as bait.”
“What? Are you nuts? He wants to kill me.”
“I’ll take precautions.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll be watching.”
“And?”
“And I’ll catch him before he kills you.”
“How are you going to catch him?”
“I’ll rush him,” I said. “And give him a faceful of pepper spray.”
“I’m not completely comfortable with that.”
“I’ll use my stun gun.”
“What if you can’t get close enough to him?”
“Okay, how about if I put bullets in my .45, and then I can shoot him?”
Briggs nodded. “Bullets are good. That’s a good start. How’s your aim?”
“I’m a crack shot at ten feet.”
“You’re making me nervous. I might be getting diarrhea. I’m not well. I got IBS.”
“This won’t be a big deal. All you have to do is walk up and down Stark Street in front of Buster’s building.”
“What if I get diarrhea? I can feel it coming on just thinking about it.”
“Go into the pizza place and use their bathroom.”
“They might not have a public bathroom,” Briggs said.
“Then go out the back door and hide behind the dumpster.”
“Boy, that’s cold,” Briggs said.
“It’s Stark Street. People probably go behind the dumpster all the time.”
“All right. I guess I could try it, but I want to see your gun.”
“I don’t actually have my gun with me,” I said.
Briggs crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not doing it unless you have a gun.”
“Okay, great, fine, whatever. I’ll go get Lula. She always has a gun.”
“Damn right I got a gun,” Lula said, taking the front passenger seat. “I don’t mind using it either if it’s for a good cause. Or in this case to get Poletti before he rids the world of Mr. Poopie Pants.”
“It’s a legitimate medical condition,” Briggs said.
“So where are we gonna show him off?” Lula asked.
I put the Buick in gear and pulled into traffic. “I thought we’d start on Stark Street. We can stand him in front of Buster’s building.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Lula said. “Buster could look out his window, and see Briggs, and call Poletti to come off him.”
“Cripes,” Briggs said. “Could you phrase it some other way?”
“Your problem is you don’t know how to relax,” Lula said to Briggs. “You take everything so serious.”
“You’re talking about people killing me,” Briggs said. “That’s serious!”
“Do you have your cellphone?” I asked Briggs.
“Yeah. I got my cellphone.”
“When we get to Stark Street I’m going to drop you off in front of the pizza place, and then I’m going to park, and Lula and I will take up surveillance somewhere. Keep your cellphone handy, because I’ll call you if I think you’re in danger.”
“You’re going to be close, right? I mean, you’re only accurate to ten feet.”
“No problem,” I said. “We’ll make sure you’re covered.”
“And if you have to poop,” Lula said, “you tell us so we know we can take a break. I might need a piece of pizza or a donut or something.”
“Sure. How long do I have to do this?”
“I’m thinking until someone shoots at you, or runs you over with a car,” Lula said.
I stopped in front of the pizza place, and Briggs got out. He had his cellphone in his hand, and his face was white.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”
He nodded and shuffled around a little.
“There’s a parking place on the other side of the street,” Lula said. “Go around the block and come back the other way.”
I drove around the block and parked two doors down and across the street from Briggs. He was still clutching his cellphone, and he was pacing the length of Buster’s building. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“He don’t look natural,” Lula said. “Nobody’s gonna shoot him with him looking like that.”
“We don’t want him shot,” I said. “We just want to drag Poletti out into the open.”
“I guess that’s one way to go.”
A half hour later a black SUV cruised down the street and stopped in front of Briggs and the pizza place.
“I can’t see Briggs anymore,” Lula said. “That big-ass black car is in my way.”
“Give me your gun.”
“What?”
“Your gun!”
Lula stuck her hand into her purse and rooted around. “It’s in here somewhere.”
I was out of the Buick, running across the street, when the SUV took off. No Briggs on the sidewalk. I ran back to the Buick, jumped behind the wheel, and roared after the SUV.
“They’ve got him,” I said to Lula. “Have you found your gun yet?”
“I might have left it in my other purse. At the last minute I decided to wear these purple shoes, and you know how important it is to coordinate properly.”
I have two purses. One is a messenger bag I use every day. The other is a little evening bag I use three times a year. They’re both black.
The Buick has no pickup, but once it gets rolling it’s a tank. I was half a block behind the SUV when it stopped for a light. I rammed the Buick into the back of the SUV, bouncing it halfway into the intersection. One of the doors opened on the passenger side, and Briggs was tossed out. The light changed, and the crumpled SUV drove off.
Lula and I got out and picked Briggs up off the road.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“No thanks to you. I just got kidnapped.”
“Was it Poletti?”
“No. It was two whacked-out guys who said they always wanted to kidnap a midget. I mean, what the heck is wrong with this world? What has it come to?”
“Did you explain to them you aren’t a midget no more?” Lula asked. “That you are a very short person now?”
“No. I punched one of them in the nuts, and he threw me out of the car. I thought you were supposed to be protecting me. Suppose that was Poletti?”
“Hey, she crashed into that car for you,” Lula said. “She didn’t even care about damaging her own personal property.”
We all looked at the Buick. Not a scratch on it. The Buick is invincible.
Cars were pulling around us, beeping their horns. Briggs was giving them the finger.
“We should get in the car,” Lula said. “Not a good idea for a little white man to be giving the finger to people in this neighborhood.”
I drove us the length of Stark and turned left at State Street. I cut through town and took a small detour to check out Ranger’s building. The street was still cordoned off and filled with emergency vehicles. My heart stuttered in my chest, and a chill ripped through me. I circled the block and continued on to the bail bonds office. I dropped Lula off and brought Briggs back to my apartment.
“I thought we were going to your parents’ house for dinner,” he said. “Why are we here?”
“I have to change my clothes. I’m going to Mrs. Poletti’s viewing after dinner, and I can’t go in jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Why not?”
“It would be disrespectful. And my mother would hear about it, and she’d yell at me and get out the ironing. She irons when she’s upset. You want to stay away from her when she’s ironing.”
“If you ask me, your whole family is goofy.”
“I like to think we’re normally dysfunctional.”
I set Briggs in front of the television, then changed into a tailored black suit and a stretchy white tanktop with a scoop neck. I stuffed my feet into black heels, brushed my hair out and pulled it up into a new ponytail, added an extra swipe of mascara to my lashes, and I was good to go.
“Well, la-di-da,” Briggs said when he saw me. “Look at you all dressed up. If Poletti comes after me, you can spear him with the heel on your shoe.”