“Holy Hannah,” Grandma said when she saw Briggs. “What happened to him? Did your father catch up to him?”
“Someone shot a rocket-propelled firebomb into my apartment,” I said.
“Again?” Grandma asked.
“Yeah, I was hoping I could leave Rex here.” I peeked into the house. “Is my father home?”
“He’s in the kitchen, finishing up lunch. And he’s still complaining about the cake. You might not want to go in there with the little guy.”
I handed Rex over and went back to the car with Briggs.
“You’re going to have to find a place to live,” I told him. “I’m going to move home with my parents until my apartment gets fixed, and you can’t stay there.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Go anywhere. Mooch off friends or relatives. Move into a motel.”
“Poletti will find me.”
I put the car in gear and drove away from the curb. “He found you in my apartment, and now it’s got a big hole in it!”
“What about using me as bait?”
“Been there and done that.”
“Boy, this is the thanks I get for saving your rat.”
“Hamster. And he wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if it wasn’t for you.”
“I’m thinking I should see some gratitude. I could have just run out and left him there, but I took the time to save his life.”
I turned onto Hamilton Avenue. “You have a lot of nerve pulling the gratitude card on me after all I’ve done for you.”
“You got me drunk, kidnapped, and almost blown up!”
“And you want more?”
Briggs slumped in his seat. “I don’t know what I want. I’m depressed.”
My phone rang, and I saw from the display that it was Lula.
“I need you to come pick me up,” she said. “I’m done here.”
“What about Stanley?”
“He’s with me. They discharged him. He just had a panic attack, but he’s okay now. You can pick us up at the emergency entrance.”
It took me three minutes to get to the hospital. Lula was standing at the curb, and Stanley was alongside her, wearing a hospital gown and handcuffs.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Lula said to me, helping to get Stanley into the backseat. “I put him in two gowns so his rear door don’t flap open. And I got extra big gowns, too.”
“I’m hungry,” Stanley said. “I didn’t get any lunch.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry too,” Briggs said. “I had an upsetting morning.”
Lula looked over at Briggs. “What the heck happened to him?”
I steered the Buick into traffic and pointed us in the direction of Cluck-in-a-Bucket. “He was in my apartment when it got torched. Someone rocketed a firebomb into it.”
“Say what?”
“He’s out to get me,” Briggs said. “He’s not going to stop until he gets me.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have done his wife,” I said.
“Everyone’s done his wife,” Briggs said. “I was last in line. There was no one left to do her. I thought I was doing everyone a favor.”
“Hold on here,” Lula said. “Are we talking a rocket like ZOOM BANG! and everything’s blown all to hell?”
“It was more like BANG WHOOSH,” Briggs said. “It punched a hole in the brick instead of sailing through the window, and Steph’s living room got cremated. And at great personal risk to myself I rescued the hamster.”
“No shit?” Lula said. “Is that true?”
I swung into the parking lot to Cluck-in-a-Bucket. “Looks like it. I haven’t been allowed into my apartment yet. What do you all want here?”
“I want a double Clucky Burger with large fries, onion rings, and a Diet Coke,” Stanley said. “And I want an apple pie for dessert.”
“I’ll second that,” Lula said.
“Yeah, me too,” Briggs said.
“Who’s going in for this?” I asked.
“Not me,” Briggs said. “I can’t see over the counter.”
“I’d go,” Stanley said, “but I don’t have any money, and I can’t carry all the drinks with these handcuffs.”
“One of us gotta keep an eye on the prisoner,” Lula said to me. “Pick your poison.”
“Hey!” Briggs said. “Look at that guy who just got out of the black SUV and is going into Cluck-in-a-Bucket. That’s Jimmy Poletti. That’s the son of a bitch who blew up my apartment.” Briggs was out of his seat belt and out of the car. “You son of a bitch!” he yelled at Poletti.
Poletti turned, saw Briggs and company, and took off at a run.
Lula and I bolted out of the car and ran after Poletti, chasing him around the building and across the street. I was in sneakers and jeans, and Lula was in five-inch stiletto heels and a skirt that came just two inches below her ass. I was gaining on Poletti. Lula was pounding the pavement behind me. And Briggs was running third, yelling obscenities and threats at Poletti.
The black SUV careened around the corner and slid to a stop, Poletti jumped in, and the car sped away.
“Shit!” Briggs said. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
Lula tugged her skirt down. “That Poletti has no luck at all. He’s shot off two rockets so far, and neither of them’s put a dent in Mr. Short, Pale, and Creepy here. And not only that but he got no guts. He obviously don’t want to kill Briggs in front of witnesses. What’s with that?”
We walked back to Cluck-in-a-Bucket, got our order, and carried it to the Buick. No Stanley.
“Somebody stole Stanley,” Lula said.
“Yeah,” Briggs said. “There’s high demand for a fat guy wearing handcuffs and a hospital gown.”
I drove the route from Cluck-in-a-Bucket to Stanley’s parents’ house, but we didn’t see Stanley.
“Call me crazy,” I said, “but I don’t feel like putting any more effort into capturing Stanley today.”
“It’s no problem anyway,” Lula said. “I got a date with him for Sunday night. I’ll let you know when we get out of the movies, and you can come get him.”