“I get the feeling this happens a lot,” Diesel said.
“I have bad car juju.”
My phone rang, and I knew from the ringtone it was Lula.
“I’m at the Shop and Bag. I figured I’d pick some stuff up before I went to work, and who do you think is here? It’s the guy who shot himself in the foot. Whatshisname. He’s got his foot in one of them boot things, and he’s driving a motorized shopping cart. I wouldn’t mind going over and beating on him, but I thought you might want first crack.”
“I’ll be right there.” I ran to the foyer and grabbed my jacket and bag. “Gotta go,” I said to Diesel. “Lula’s spotted one of my FTAs.”
“Make sure you’re back here by noon at the latest,” Diesel said.
I sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, crossed the lot to the new Jeep, and looked inside. Oh boy, leather seats. I slid behind the wheel and sucked in the new-?car smell. I missed Carl, but I had to admit this smelled better than monkey.
Ten minutes later, I was at Shop and Bag. I had cuffs stuck into the back pocket of my jeans, pepper spray clipped to my waistband, and a stun gun that might or might not work shoved into my jacket pocket. I jogged to the entrance and called Lula on her cell.
“He just went down the cereal aisle,” she said. “He’s heading for dairy. I’m hiding out in personal products.”
I turned down condiments and had him in sight. Lula was right. He was heading for dairy. Lula joined me and we followed him past the cheese and approached him in front of yogurt.
“Denny Guzzi?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, turning his vehicle to face me. “Oh shit.”
“You missed your court date,” I said. “You need to reschedule.”
“Forget it. There wasn’t a crime. I’m not doing the time.”
“You robbed a store.”
“I didn’t get to keep the money. It doesn’t count.”
“That’s true,” Lula said.
“It’s not true!” I told her.
“Well, there does seem to be some injustice.”
“Have you been hitting the medicinal whiskey again?”
“I was a little congested this morning,” Lula said.
I reached for Guzzi with the cuffs, and he wheeled his cart around, clipped me with the basket, and took off down condiments.
“Help,” he yelled. “Crazy lady.”
He was grabbing jars off the shelves, throwing them at me, smashing them on the floor. Ketchup. Crash. All over the floor. Dill pickles. Crash. All over the floor. Giant-?size mayonnaise. Crash. All over the floor. Lula and I were sliding in glop, picking our way around glass shards, pickles, olives, sliced beets.
“Cleanup in aisle nine,” came over the public address system.
Lula and I turned and backtracked in an effort to outflank Guzzi. We ran down aisle ten, rounded the endcap, and blocked his forward progress.
“This is not a big deal,” I said to him. “It’ll only take a few minutes to get a new court date, and then I’ll bring you back so you can finish your shopping.”
This was a huge lie, of course, but I was desperate. I needed the money, and besides, I didn’t like him. Call me crazy, but I don’t like people who shoot at me and hit me with their motorized shopping carts.
“Okay, how about this,” Lula said to Guzzi. “How about I root your crippled ass out of that rent-?a-?wreck and kick your butt all the way across the parking lot.”
“What’d I ever do to you?” he asked.