He shrugged. “Call me crazy, but I'm an optimist.”
“Fine. Go be an optimist someplace else. I don't like you following me around. It's creepy.”
“I won't be any bother. You won't even know I'm here.”
“You're driving six inches from my rear. How am I going to not know you're here?”
“Don't look in your mirror.”
“And I don't think you're a bookie, either,” I said. “Nobody knows you. I've been asking around.”
He smiled, like this was pretty funny. “Oh, yeah? Who do you think I am?”
“I don't know.”
“Let me know when you find out.”
“Asshole.”
“Sticks and stones,” Bunchy said. “And I bet your mother wouldn't like you using that language.”
I huffed off to the Buick, jammed myself behind the wheel, and drove to the office.
“You see that guy parked behind me?” I asked Lula.
“The one in the piece-?of-?shit brown Dodge?”
“His name's Bunchy, and he says he's a bookie.”
“He don't look like no bookie to me,” Lula said. “And I never heard of anyone named Bunchy.”
Connie squinted out the window, too. “I don't recognize him, either,” she said. “And if he's a bookie, he's not doing all that good.”
“He says Fred owes him money, and he's following me in case I find Fred.”
“Does that float your boat?” Lula wanted to know.
“No. I need to get rid of him.”
“Permanently? 'Cause I got a friend—”
“No! Just for the rest of the day.”
Lula took another look at Bunchy. “If I shoot out his tires, will he shoot back?”
“Probably.”
“I don't like when they shoot back,” Lula said.
“I thought maybe I could trade cars with you.”
“Trade my Firebird for that whale you drive? I don't think so. Friendship don't go that far.”
“Fine! Great! Forget I asked!”
“Hold on,” Lula said. “Don't have to go getting all snippy. I'll have a talk with him. I can be real persuasive.”
“You aren't going to threaten him, are you?”