“High rate of metabolism and clean living.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I thought I‘d hang out,” Diesel said.
“You and Carl?”
“Yeah.”
Carl gave Diesel a thumbs-?up.
“Well, I‘m a working girl,” I told him. “I‘m going to take a shower and go catch a bad guy.”
“Knock yourself out,” Diesel said. “If you get a line on Munch, let me know.”
LULA WAS ON the couch in the bonds office when I walked in. She was wearing a pink sweat suit and sneakers, and she was holding a box of tissues. She didn‘t have any makeup on, and her hair was somewhere between rat‘s nest and exploded canary.
“What‘s up?” I asked.
“I‘m dying is what‘s up,” Lula said. “I got the flu back. I woke up this morning, and I couldn‘t stop sneezing. And my eyes are all puffy. And I feel like crap.”
“Maybe it‘s an allergy,” I said to her.
“I don‘t get allergies. I never been allergic to anything.”
“How‘d it go with Tank last night? Did you set a new date for the wedding?”
“I decided December first is a good time on account of it‘ll be easy to remember for anniversaries.”
“That was okay with Tank?”
“Yeah. He had his eyes closed when I told him, but I‘m pretty sure he was listening.”
Lula sneezed and blew her nose. “I swear, this just came on me. One minute, I‘m doing the nasty, and then next thing, I got the flu again.”
“Maybe you‘re allergic to Tank,” Connie said.
“I gotta get my numbers done,” Lula said. “I think there‘s something wrong with my juju. I‘m gonna call Miss Gloria. This just isn‘t right.”
I pulled Gordo Bollo‘s file out of my bag. “I‘m going to look in on Mr. Bollo. According to his file, he works for Greenblat Produce on Water Street.”
“I‘ll go with you,” Lula said. “I heard about Greenblat. That‘s a big fruit distributor. I could get an orange or a grapefruit for my bad juju while we‘re there. And I‘ll call Miss Gloria from the car.”
We piled into the Jeep and I took Hamilton, driving toward Broad Street. I had my top up but none of the windows zipped in. It was the end of September, and Trenton was enjoying a last-?ditch warm spell.
“Hello,” Lula said into her phone. “This here‘s Lula, and I need to talk to Miss Gloria. It‘s an emergency. I‘m sick, and I think it‘s my juju, and I need my numbers done right away before I might die or something.” Lula disconnected and dropped her phone into her purse. “I hate being sick. No one should ever be sick. And if they do have to be sick, there should never be mucus involved.”
I didn‘t want to hear any more about mucus, so I punched the radio on, found a rap station for Lula, and blasted it out. By the time I rolled to a stop in front of Greenblat Produce, Lula was on a rant over my radio.
“You can‘t play rap on this cheap-?ass radio,” she said. “There‘s no bass. This is like Alvin and the Chipmunks do Jay-?Z. On the other hand, your open-?air car got my head cleared out. I can breathe. I don‘t even feel a sneeze coming on.”
Greenblat Produce was housed in a large cement-?block ware house with a loading dock in the rear and a small windowless office in the front. There were four desks in the office, and they were occupied by women who looked like Connie clones.
“What?” one of them said to me.
“I‘m looking for Gordo Bollo.”
“Oh damn, what‘d he do now?”