“I’m understanding why you shot up the bakery,” Lula said to Mary Jane. “You had every right to do that. I’ve never seen anything like what was in that diaper. It smelled terrible. It was a smell I’m never gonna be able to forget. I’m gonna have nightmares.”
“You get used to it,” Mary Jane said.
“Nuh ah, honey. Not me. If I have a baby, it’s not getting born until it’s at least ten years old.”
Lula stripped off her rubber gloves and handed them over to Mary Jane and we headed for the door.
“Your new court date is Friday,” I said to Mary Jane. “Connie will call to remind you.”
We got into my car and Lula powered her window down. “I need air,” she said. “I need aromatherapy. I swear to God, I looked for a hazmat suit, but I couldn’t find one.”
“It looks like you gave them a snack.”
“Cereal and gummy bears. They got into an argument over who had more. The two-year-old threw some at his brother and then the big kid threw some at the little kid and then the little kid pooped his pants and that was the end of it.”
I didn’t have any of those problems with a hamster. My life was almost perfect.
“I think I saw Oswald in town when I was on the way back from the courthouse. I couldn’t stop but I thought we could go back and look around.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Lula said. “And I’m glad you didn’t stop because if I had to last much longer, I might have felt like shooting up a bakery. Except I wouldn’t take out the éclairs. That’s the thing about rage. You gotta have selective rage. You don’t shoot things that are valuable like people and éclairs. If you gotta shoot up something, you go for the gluten-and dairy-free zucchini bread. Vegans always give you a pass.”
“Something to remember.”
“You bet your ass.”
I drove out of the Burg, crossed the railroad tracks, and took South Broad to State Street. Two blocks in I saw Oswald exit an office building and turn left. I got as close to him as possible, pulled to the curb, and parked in a no-parking zone. Lula and I jumped out of my car and ran for Oswald.
Lula was clattering down the sidewalk in her five-inch heels, waving her gun and shouting, “Stop, or I’ll shoot” to Oswald. Oswald looked over his shoulder at us and took off.
“No shooting,” I yelled at Lula.
“Don’t worry,” she yelled back, “I got him in my sights.”
Oswald turned down a side street and we ran after him. He was surprisingly fast for a pudgy little guy. Lula sounded like a steam engine with asthma, chugging beside me.
“Damn,” she gasped, “the son of a bagel can run.”
I wasn’t gaining on Oswald, but I wasn’t dropping behind, either. He entered a building and took the stairs. One floor, two floors, three floors. My lungs were burning, and my legs were failing me. Lula was still on the street. Oswald took a door and disappeared. I was cautious at the door. I didn’t know if he was armed. I opened the door and jumped to the side. No one shot at me so I peeked out. The door opened to a hallway and an elevator. No Oswald in sight. I carefully walked into the hall and looked at the elevator. It was going down.
I called Lula to tell her to monitor the elevator. No answer. I went back to the stairs and ran down. I got to the first floor and heard gunshots below me. I had an adrenaline surge that had my heart rate at stroke level. I burst out of the door at ground level and almost knocked Lula over.
“What happened?” I asked Lula. “I heard gunshots.”
“I was standing here catching my breath and next thing he came out of the elevator. I had my gun in my hand and I said, ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’ He did one of those kung fu moves you see on television and knocked me on my ass. I fired off a couple shots, but he got away.”
This wasn’t a surprise to me. I’ve seen Lula fire point-blank at a target and miss it. Lula was the worst shot ever.
We walked back to the car, keeping watch for Oswald. We didn’t see Oswald and when we got to the car it had a police boot on the left front tire and a ticket on the windshield.
“What the heck?” Lula said. “The police truck must have been sitting around the corner waiting for someone to park here.”
I called Morelli and told him about Oswald and the parking problem.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Morelli said. “Stay with your car.”
An hour later, the boot got removed but the ticket stayed on my windshield. I didn’t see Diesel cruising around. I didn’t see Oswald waltz by. And Lula had already taken an Uber back to the office. It was after five o’clock when I drove into my apartment building’s parking lot. The remains of the motor home had been removed and the blacktop had been swept clean. I bypassed the stairs and took the elevator to my apartment.