“That’s rude,” Lula said to the woman who kicked me. “What’s the matter with you? You don’t kick sisters for no cause.”
“I got lots of cause,” the woman said. “I’m loaded with cause.” And she kicked Lula.
Lula swung her purse and hit the woman square in the face, knocking her off her feet.
Someone squeezed off a couple shots that took out a piece of Lula’s magenta hair before they embedded themselves in the hot dog truck. Everyone either hit the ground or ran for cover.
“I’ve been shot!” Lula screamed. “Lordy, someone help me. I’ve been shot.”
“She just got you in the hair,” I said.
Hal had the shooter by the back of her shirt. He was holding her at arm’s length with her feet not touching the ground. He had her gun in his other hand.
“What do you want me to do with her?” he asked.
“Put her down. We lost Waggle. He ran when she started shooting.”
Hal looked around. “It’s going to be hard to find him now.”
“We can try again tomorrow,” I said.
“Not me,” Lula said. “I’m not coming back here. These people have no respect. I got shoved and kicked and shot at. And I got my hair ruined.” She felt around where her hair had been shot off. “It’s not like hair grows on trees,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS FRIDAY morning. The sun was shining. My Rangeman escort was on my bumper. I was on my way to the bonds office.
I was going more out of habit than necessity. Realistically speaking, I only had one open file, and chances of making that capture this morning were close to zero—unless Victor Waggle staggered into the road in a drug-induced stupor and I accidentally ran over him.
Lula was eating the Boston Kreme donut when I walked in.
“I never expected to get the good donut today,” Lula said to me. “It took me forever to figure out what to do with my hair. I couldn’t get a salon appointment until tomorrow. Why are you late?”
“I didn’t want to start my day.”
“I hear you,” Lula said. “I’m getting the feeling our life is going south. We’re not having a lot of luck being bounty hunters, and the deli is turning into the kitchen from hell. I’m not even sure about my career as a sandwich maker anymore. I feel like I’m underappreciated by some of the customers.”
“Maybe because they never get what they order.”
“Yeah, but I’m giving them a unique culinary experience. It’s called haute cuisine. I read about it in a magazine while I was waiting to get my nails done. I’m all about haute cuisine and haute couture. I bet I could haute couture the hell out of any-one in Trenton.”
No doubt. At the moment, she was wearing a blond Farrah Fawcett wig, a fire-engine-red sequined tank top, a short spandex purple skirt that had metallic silver threads running through it, and five-inch silver platform heels.
“What’s the word on Vinnie?” I asked Connie.
“He’s supposed to go home today.”
“Is he talking? Did he say what happened to him?”
“He’s talking, but I don’t think he can remember anything about his abduction. At least that’s what he told Lucille. Morelli might know more.”
I called Morelli and asked him about Vinnie.
“He seems to be healthy,” Morelli said. “No signs of torture or abuse. Turns out the number on his forehead wasn’t tattooed. It was put on with a marker pen. The last thing he remembers is getting out of his car in the parking area behind the agency. Toxicology reports haven’t come back yet, but I’m sure they’re going to find some sort of amnesiac drug in his system. He had needle tracks on his arm.”
“And his shoe?”
“Clean, but, again, all the lab work isn’t back.”