I carted my clothes into the bathroom and locked the door, not that it would make a difference. I took a shower, gave my hair a two-?minute blast with the dryer, and got dressed. Diesel was sleeping when I came out. I took a moment to study him, thinking he was heart-?stoppingly handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. His initial appearance was beach bum, but I‘d come to decide that was a façade. Diesel was driven by his job. The job itself was open for discussion. If he was to be believed, he was a kind of paranormal b
ounty hunter. I thought it was just as possible he was a contract killer or a career nutcase.
I went to the kitchen and fed Rex and Carl and got coffee brewing. I dropped a bagel into the toaster and took a tub of cream cheese out of my fridge. Diesel might not be much of a cook, but he sure as heck knew how to stock a kitchen.
I heard the shower running in the bathroom, and minutes later, Diesel strolled in looking for coffee. He poured himself a mug and ate half my bagel.
“I want to take the morning to wade through Munch‘s thesis,” Diesel said. “When I‘m done with the thesis, I thought we could visit Roberta Scanlon.”
Carl came into the kitchen and handed me his empty cereal box. He jumped onto the counter, got a mug out of the cupboard, and helped himself to coffee.
“This apartment smells like a monkey,” Diesel said. Carl gave him the finger and went back to the tele -vision.
“I‘m out of here,” I said to Diesel. “I‘m taking another shot at Gordo Bollo today. This time, I‘m ready. I‘ve got a stun gun, pepper spray, and cuffs.”
“Kick ass,” Diesel said. “If you aren‘t home by noon, I‘ll have you teleported back here.”
I must have looked horrified because he burst out laughing.
“I‘m falling in love,” Diesel said. “You‘re the only one on this earth who believes everything I say.”
I tried really hard not to roll my eyes, but I couldn‘t help myself and rolled them anyway. I grabbed my bag and flounced out of the apartment. It wasn‘t so much that I believed what Diesel said. It was more that I was terrified it might be true.
LULA WAS FILING when I swung into the office.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“I‘m filing. What does it look like I‘m doing? It‘s my job, you know.”
“You never file.”
“Your ass,” Lula said.
“I‘m paying a visit to Greenblat Produce this morning,” I said. “Anyone need fruit?”
“Hell yeah,” Lula said. “I‘m not missing that. I was in the car when all the action went down last time.”
I could happily do without that kind of action. Still, we took my Jeep, just in case there was another tomato incident. Lula didn‘t want to veg up her Firebird.
I drove to Greenblat and parked in the lot. I got out of the Jeep and transferred the pepper spray, stun gun, and cuffs from my bag to my jeans for easier access.
“Don‘t you worry,” Lula said. “If he starts something this time, you gonna have Lula there. I‘ll sit on Bowling Ball Head and squash him into a pancake.”
“Fine. Just don‘t shoot him.”
“Did I say I was gonna shoot him? Did you hear me say that?”
“I was only reminding you.”
“You got a thing about shooting people. I bet Diesel shoots lots of people.”
“Diesel doesn‘t carry a gun.”
“Get out of town!”
I entered the office, said hello to the Connie clones, and went straight to the door leading to the ware house. I walked up and down aisles formed by stacks of crates and found Bollo putting little stickers on apples.
“Look who‘s here,” Bollo said, spotting me. “Come back for more tomatoes?”