Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

I pulled up next to the Firebird, Lula got out, unlocked her car, and slid behind the wheel. I waited for the engine to catch, and then I put the Caye

“Something wrong?”

“It’s making a fu

“Are any of the warning lights on?”

“No. I’m go

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“Sure I know about cars. I know there’s an engine up there. And lots of other shit, too.”

Lula popped the hood, and we took a look.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Something unusual. Like I once had a neighbor who found a cat in his car. At least, he thought it used to be a cat. It was something with fur. It might have been a raccoon or a big rat or a small beaver. It was hard to tell.”

“What’s that package wrapped in cellophane with the wires?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” Lula said, leaning closer. “I think that might be the problem, though, on account of it’s ticking.”

“Ticking?”

“Oh shit!” Lula said.

We jumped back and ran for all we were worth and hid behind the Dumpster. Nothing happened.

Lula stuck her head out. “Maybe that was the carburetor, and it was supposed to tick,” she said. “Do carburetors tick?”

BABOOOM! Lula’s car jumped five feet in the air. The doors and hood flew off into space, and the car burst into flames. There was a second explosion, the Firebird rolled over onto Ranger’s Caye

Lula’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes got huge, rolled back into her head, and she keeled over in a dead faint. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the fire had played itself out. Lula was sitting propped against the Dumpster, still not making sense.

“It… and… my… how?” she asked.

I was numb. These idiots were still trying to kill Lula, and I’d just destroyed another Caye

I suddenly felt warm, and all the little hairs stood up on my arms. I turned and bumped into Ranger.

“This has to be a record,” he said. “I’ve had that car for twenty-four hours.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I burst into tears.

Ranger wrapped his arms around me and cuddled me into him. “Babe. It’s just a car.”

“It’s not just the car. It’s me,” I wailed. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” Ranger said. “You’re just having one of those emotional girl moments.”

“Unh,” I said. And I punched him in the chest. “Feel better?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

He stepped back and looked at Lula. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s in a state. Her Firebird got blown up.”

“She spends all this time with you, and she’s not used to cars getting blown up?”

“They aren’t usually hers.”

“Does she need help?”

“I think she’ll come around,” I said. “She’s breathing now. And her eyes have mostly gone back into their sockets.”

I looked past Ranger and saw Morelli come on the scene. He picked me out of the crowd of bystanders and jogged over.

“Are you okay?” he asked me. “What’s with Lula?”

“One of those cars used to be her Firebird.”

“And the other used to be my Caye

Morelli looked down at Lula. “Does she need a medic?”

“Someone’s go

Morelli and Ranger smiled wide, and we all took a step back.

“That should help,” I said.

“Yep,” Morelli said, still gri

“I have to get back to the office,” Ranger said. “Ramon is in a car on the street if you need anything.”

Morelli watched him walk away. “It’s like he’s Spider-Man with Spidey sense. Something happens, and he suddenly appears. And then when the disaster is contained, he vanishes.”

“His control room listens to the sca

“That was my second guess,” Morelli said.

“It was some sort of bomb,” I said to Morelli. “It was next to the engine, and it ticked. We were lucky we weren’t killed.”

“It ticked? Bombs don’t tick anymore. Where did they get their material, WWI surplus?”

“Maybe it was something rubbing against a moving part. I don’t know anything about this stuff. It was making a noise that sounded like ticking. Anyway, these guys aren’t smart.”

“I noticed. It makes it all the more a

“How’s Bob?” I asked.

“Bob is fine. His intestines are squeaky clean.”

“How are you?”

“I’m clean, too.”

And then I couldn’t help myself. The bitch part of me sneaked out. “How’s Joyce?”

“Joyce is Joyce,” Morelli said.

Lula hauled herself to her feet. “I’m in a bad mood,” she said. “I’m in a mood to get me some Marco the Maniac. I’ve had it with this shit. It’s one thing to kill me, but blowin’ up my Firebird is goin’ too far.” She looked at her watch. “We gotta get to the park. We gotta sign in.”

“We haven’t got a car. The Buick is parked at Rangeman.”

“I’ll call Co

SIXTEEN

CONNIE DROVE A silver Camry with rosary beads hanging from her rear view mirror and a Smith amp; Wesson stuck under the driver’s seat. No matter what went down, Co

I was in the backseat with Grandma, and Lula was next to Co

“I didn’t expect this,” Grandma said. “I figured we come with a jar of sauce, and they’d have some chicken for us.”

“We got a grill,” Lula said, getting out of the Camry. “We just didn’t bring it yet.”

“Did you get a set of rules when you registered?” Co

“No. I did the express register, bein’ that the organizer was under some duress. And on top of that, I didn’t have to pay no registration fee, so he might have been trying to save on paper.”

A registration table had been set up at the edge of the lot. Competitors were signing in, taking a set of instructions, and leaving with a tray.

“What’s with the tray?” Lula asked the guy in line in front of us.

“It’s the official competition tray. You put the food that’s going to be judged on the tray.”

“Imagine that,” Grandma said. “Isn’t that something?”

We got our tray and our rules, and we stepped aside to read through the instructions.

“It says here that we can’t use a gas grill,” Co

“I’m thinking ribs,” Lula said. “Seems to me it’s harder to poison someone with ribs. I guess there’s always that trichinosis thing, but you don’t know about that for years. And I’m go

“All these people got tents and tables and signs with their name on it,” Grandma said. “We need some of that stuff. We need a name.”

“How about Vincent Plum Bail Bondettes,” Co

“I’m not being nothin’ associating me with Vincent Plum,” Lula said. “Bad enough I gotta work for the little pervert.”

“I want a sexy name,” Grandma said. “Like Hot Vagina.”

“Flamin’ Assholes would be better,” Lula said. “That’s what happens when you eat our sauce. Can you say Flamin’ Assholes on television?”

“This is big,” I said, looking out over the field. “There are; ags with numbers on them all over the place. Every team is assigned a number.”