“I’m game,” Nutsy said. “I’m tired of sitting here.”
I changed my shirt, Nutsy put pants on, and we piled into the Explorer.
“This is good,” Lula said. “It helps me to get my mind off Grendel.”
“I’d like to see Grendel,” Nutsy said. “It’s not every day that a character out of a video game comes to life.”
“According to Stephanie, he was real before the video game,” Lula said. “And you only want to see him because he isn’t after your body.”
“I’m thinking he must fall into the zombie category,” Nutsy said.
“I don’t like that thinking,” Lula said. “I’m not in favor of zombies. Bad enough he’s a demon.”
“You don’t really think he’s come alive from a video game, do you?” Nutsy asked.
“I guess not,” Lula said. “It’s like when you see a clown and he’s all done up so that you don’t really know what’s under the makeup and funny clothes. All I know is that this thing is scary, and he looks like Grendel.”
I drove around the train station and headed for the Catholic church on French Street. After an hour of searching with no results, Lula took matters into her own hands and ordered takeout for all of us from Pino’s.
“We should find out where the free food is being handed out,” Lula said, tucking into her meatball sub. “It looks like Marcus got spooked off the street today, but he might come out for soup and a sandwich.”
I’d had the same thought. He’d frequented the food truck that fed the hungry in the King Street area. That was no longer convenient to him, but I suspected there was food given out by the Catholic church. I finished my chicken Parm and headed back to French Street.
I was a block from the church when I saw a small group of men huddled around a van.
“That’s one of the vans that gives out food,” Lula said.
“And I see Marcus,” Nutsy said. “He’s off to the side with a drink and a sandwich.”
I drove past the van and parked around the corner, out of sight. I wanted to sneak up on Marcus, but there was the risk that he’d recognize Nutsy or me. And he’d definitely remember Bob.
“You go in first,” I said to Lula. “Keep him occupied so Nutsy and I can get close to him.”
We walked around the corner and didn’t see Marcus.
“Maybe someone knows him,” I said. “He must be crashing somewhere nearby.”
“I’ll go mingle,” Lula said. “I’ll use my finesse to fish out information.”
“I’ve tried talking to these people,” Nutsy said. “They don’t give up anything, and some of them are unhinged.”
“Yeah, but that’s because you’re you. I’m Lula. Leave this to me,” Lula said, adjusting her girls, giving them some fresh air to the point where her too-tight shocking-pink scoop-neck sweater barely covered her huge protruding nipples.
Here’s the thing. We all have skills, and we have an obligation to use them to the best of our ability. Some people are whizzes with math. Some people are musical prodigies. Some people can bake cakes. Some people can change a tire. Lula has breasts.
Nutsy watched Lula sashay over to the group of men. “Does she know what she’s doing?”
“Yep,” I said. “Stand down.”
Ten minutes later, Lula returned. She had a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat and tomato soup in a cardboard cup.
“His name is Marcus Ulman,” she said. “He smokes a lot of dope and drinks whatever he can get his hands on, but he doesn’t do anything hard. He’s been on the street for at least ten years. Lost his job when the condom factory closed. Wife left him. Has kids but doesn’t know where they are. Used to hang with Stump but nobody’s seen Stump and Marcus isn’t talking about it. Sometimes he crashes in a crack house on the next block. Apparently, he has friends there. Third floor.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s take a look at the crack house.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Nutsy asked.
“Not usually,” I said. “Mostly it’s just sad.”
We found the house and I didn’t want to involve Bob, so I left him on the sidewalk with Lula. Nutsy and I walked three flights up and knocked on the only door.
A wasted woman with straw hair and acne-pocked skin answered the door.
“Yuh,” she said.
“Is Marcus here?” I asked.
She made a motion with her head that said to come in.
The truth is that I was flying on bravado here, and I was terrified. I was usually tagging along behind Ranger on this sort of mission. Once Lula and I had stumbled into an apartment guarded by an alligator, but that wasn’t a normal happening.
I stepped in and looked around. There were mattresses and quilts and sleeping bags on the floor. All soiled and haphazardly placed. All dumpster rescues. The smell was a mixture of stale French fries and human suffering. We stepped around the mattresses and found Marcus at a table in what might have been the dining room. He had a bottle of beer in front of him and he was eating his sandwich.
“Hi, Marcus,” I said. “Remember me?”
“And me,” Nutsy said.
He looked at me and then at Nutsy. “What do you want?”
“Information,” I said.
“I haven’t got any,” Marcus said.
“Maybe we should have brought Lula,” Nutsy said.
“I bet you’d like something better than that beer,” I said to Marcus. I pulled a twenty out of my messenger bag and held it out to him. “I want to know about Stump.”
“I don’t know anybody named Stump,” he said.
He reached for the twenty, and I pulled it away. “Tell me about Stump.”
“Fuck you,” he said.
It smelled really bad in the apartment, Nutsy looked like he was going to lose the Taylor pork roll he’d had for dinner, Lula and Bob were waiting on the sidewalk, and I was expecting a call from Morelli.
“I apologize ahead of time,” I said to Marcus, “but it’s turning into a very long day, and if I lose this opportunity, I might not be able to find you again.”
“Fuck you and fuck him too,” Marcus said.
I took my stun gun out of my back pocket and gave Marcus a bunch of volts. Marcus face-planted into his sandwich and slumped out of his chair.
“We need to get him out of here. Which end do you want?” I asked Nutsy.
“Holy crap,” Nutsy said.
I grabbed Marcus by the back of his shirt and dragged him to the door. There were seven other people in the crack house and none of them paid any attention to me dragging Marcus. I got him into the hall and looked at the three flights of stairs.
“Are you going to help, or what?” I asked Nutsy.
“What should I do?”
“Grab his feet and don’t let go. We have to wrangle him down these stairs.”
I was in a full-on sweat by the time we reached the street, and Marcus was coming around.
“Cuffs!” I yelled at Lula.
“I got them in my bag,” Lula said, searching through her faux–Louis Vuitton tote. “They’re in here somewhere. Here’s my gun.”