“Takes a lot to scare Tank,” Ranger said. And he was gone.
I took a shower and I did the full-?on hair thing. Hot rollers, gel, the works. I tweezed my eyebrows, painted my toenails, and spent an hour applying makeup. I shrugged into a swirly flowered skirt and finished it all off with a stretchy little white knit top. I was Jersey Girl right down to the strappy sandals with the four-?inch heels. Not only did I have to do some image correction for Tank, but I'd be damned if I was going to die needing a pedicure.
I clacked out of the house carrying my big leather shoulder bag and took off for the office in the Escape. I looked great, but I couldn't run for a damn in the shoes so I had sneakers in my shoulder bag. . . just in case I had to chase down a bad guy.
I turned onto Hamilton and Andrew Cone called.
“I have something for you,” he said. “This is really good. Can you stop around?”
Andrew sounded excited. Maybe this was my lucky day. Hot dog.
Connie was at her desk when I swung in. “Uh-?oh,” she said, “big hair and full face paint, high heels, and a Barbie shirt. What's going on?”
“It's too complicated to explain.” And I wasn't sure I understood, anyway. “Where's Lula?”
“She's up the street. She's still on the diet. Went through all her meat in a half hour and had to walk up to the coffee shop for some bacon.”
“Lula walked to the coffee shop? That's two blocks away. Lula never walks anywhere.”
“She parked in back and got blocked in by someone. I guess she figured it was faster to walk.”
“She must have really needed the bacon.”
“She was on a mission.”
I moseyed over to the door, looked up the street, and spotted Lula at the end of the block. She was walking fast in her Via Spiga heels, holding a white food bag against her chest. Two dogs, a beagle and a golden retriever, trotted close behind Lula. A third dog crossed the street and joined the pack. Every couple steps Lula would turn and yell something at the dogs. When the beagle jumped for the bag when Lula was half a block away, Lula let out a shriek and started running.
“Stop running,” I yelled at her. “You're making it worse. They think it's a game.”
They were snapping at her heels now and barking.
“Do something,” Lula yelled. “Shoot them!”
“Drop the bag! They want the bacon.”
“No way I'm giving up my bacon.”
Lula was running knees high, arms pumping. She was wearing the Via Spigas and a short black spandex skirt that was hiked up to her waist, showing Hamilton Avenue what a big woman looks like in a red satin thong.
“Open the door!” Lula shouted. “I can make it. I'm almost there. Just hold the damn door open!”
Lula tossed the dogs a slice of bacon from the bag, the dogs dove after the bacon, and Lula rushed past me into the office. I slammed the door shut and we all stood looking at the dogs milling around outside.
Lula tugged her skirt down. “Tank's out there, isn't he?”
“Yep.”
“I explained pretty good about the pork chop, but I'm at a loss here.”
“It speaks for itself,” I said to Lula.
Grease stains were starting to show through the bag. “I love this diet,” Lula said. “I love pork chops. And I love ribs. And I love bacon. I love bacon most of all.”
Lula was eating bacon like it was popcorn, chomping on it out of the bag, rolling her eyes in gastronomic ecstasy.
“How much bacon do you have there?” Connie wanted to know.
“Three pounds minus the one strip I gave up to the dogs.”