“I got suckered into it.”
“Still, you’re living up to your promise.” Lula stopped eating and leaned forward. “I could swear that’s Farcus Trundle’s truck two cars in front of us. It’s a big black truck with the back sort of dented in from where he shoved you out of his driveway.”
We all stopped for a light, and when the light turned the black truck peeled off Hamilton, onto Olden Avenue.
“That’s him. I can see his big bowling-ball head,” Lula said. “He’s going home.”
This wasn’t a good time to run into Trundle, but I didn’t want to throw away a shot at capturing him. It was my job to take him down, but more than that, I didn’t like him. He was a horrible human being. He did bad things to good people. He smashed his truck into my car. And his girlfriend punched me in the face. I wasn’t crazy about her either. I followed him onto Olden, keeping a respectable distance.
“Are you thinking about making an apprehension?” Lula asked. “Should I get my gun out?”
“No gun. Let’s see how it plays.”
“How about if you follow him home, and when he gets out of his truck you run him over?”
It was a pleasant thought but might not go well in court.
He turned onto a side street and when I turned, he put his foot to the floor and raced down the street.
“He spotted you,” Lula said.
Not hard to do with the front of my Cherokee crumpled.
“Keep your eyes on him,” I said. “I’m not doing ninety on this side street.”
“He’s way ahead of you and he turned right again,” Lula said.
I turned right when I reached the corner, but the black truck was nowhere in sight. I continued down the street, I stopped at the cross street, and I was suddenly hit from behind. BAM.
“It’s him!” Lula yelled. “It’s Farcus. He must have gone around the block and come up behind you.”
BAM. He hit me again, bouncing my Cherokee halfway into the intersection.
“That does it,” Lula said. “He knocked Bob off the seat and my pastries all spilled out. I’m going to shoot the sonovabitch.”
“No! Not a good idea!”
Lula was out of her seat belt, turned around, and two-handing her gun. BANG!
Trundle laid rubber with the truck in reverse. He executed a U-turn in the middle of the block and drove away. Bob climbed onto the back seat. Lula put the pastries back into their box and fastened her seat belt. I looked at the bullet hole in my rear window and slowly drove back to Hamilton Avenue.
I parked in front of the bail bonds office, and we all got out and looked at the damage to the back of my Cherokee.
“It’s not so bad,” Lula said. “He hit you straight on. That’s good on account of you can still drive it, being that the wheels weren’t affected. It doesn’t even look like you’re leaking anything. You aren’t going to be able to open the tailgate door, but that’s okay because you got four more you can use.”
“Always look on the bright side,” I said to Lula.
“You bet your ass,” Lula said.
I handed Bob’s leash to Lula. “I have to pick up some cats.”
“Not much of a bright side about that,” Lula said.
I chugged off to the Manley house and parked in the driveway. Mrs. Manley answered the door on the first ring.
“We’re all ready to go,” she said. “I have the other kitties corralled in a bedroom. I didn’t want to take a chance on them escaping when the door was open.”
Iris, Snuggles, Red Cat, and Mr. Meow Meow were in cat carriers stacked up in the foyer.
We each took two carriers and carted them to my Cherokee.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Manley said. “What happened to your car?”
“Minor accident,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”
We put the cats on the back seat and Mrs. Manley got in next to me.
“I take the kitties to the vet clinic in the strip mall across from the diner on Route 33. It’s just off Hamilton,” Mrs. Manley said. “The cat rescue has an account there.”
The cats were meowing and clawing at the doors on their cages.
“Are they okay back there?” I asked. “They sound unhappy.”
“They aren’t very good travelers, but they’ll settle down in a minute or two.”
“Have you talked to Andy today?” I asked her. “Did he stop around again?”
“He called this morning to make sure we were okay, and I told him you were taking me to the vet. He thought that was incredibly nice of you. He said he always liked you. He thought you were a good person.”
“I’d really like to talk to him. Maybe you could help us get together. I’ve tried calling and texting him, but he never answers me.”
“He’s a terrible communicator,” Mrs. Manley said. “He never returns my calls either. It’s like his head is in the clouds. He’s always been creative and sometimes I think he gets lost in his projects. He’s been writing stories lately and putting them on his blog. I’ve never read any of them because they’re just for his blogger friends.”
This was a conversation I wanted to continue, but I was having a hard time focusing because the meowing had turned into full-on howling.
“Are you sure they’re all right back there?” I asked. “They sound distressed.”
“It’s Red Cat. He’s an instigator. Once he starts misbehaving, everyone else joins in. I’m sure they’ll be fine, although it wouldn’t hurt if you could drive a little faster.”
I would have loved to drive faster, but something was rattling under the Cherokee and there was a vibration in the steering wheel. I was afraid if I drove faster the car would fall apart.
“Holy cow,” I said. “What is that smell?”
“It might be Mr. Meow Meow. I think he made poo poo. He has irritable bowel syndrome. It flares up when he’s upset or when he gets nervous.”
I was counting the seconds. I had the strip mall in sight. I hit the button to open the windows and moderately fresh air poured in. A couple beats later, I was at the parking lot entrance.
“The vet clinic is to the left,” Mrs. Manley said.
I turned left and found a spot in front of the clinic.
“Right on time,” Mrs. Manley said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
I helped her carry the crates into the waiting room. There were two other people waiting. They both had cats in crates.
“I’ll wait outside,” I said. “I need to catch up on my email.”
Mrs. Manley took a seat and smiled at me. “No problem at all.”
I went outside and took stock of my SUV. Front smashed in. Back smashed in. Interior reeking of sick cat. Something very wrong with its internal operations. （Just like Mr. Meow Meow.） The windows were wide open. I tossed the key onto the driver’s seat, and I stepped away. If there was a God in heaven and I had any luck at all, someone would steal the disaster that used to be a Jeep Cherokee.
A half hour later, Mrs. Manley came out of the clinic, carrying two crates. Unfortunately, no one had stepped forward to relieve me of the Cherokee, so I went into the clinic and helped carry the rest of the cats out.