Free 22 Tricky Twenty-Two by Janet Evanovich Page B

there.”
    “He’s not,” Pooka said. “I was at the house last night and Gobbles wasn’t in the cellar.”
    “He might have slipped in this morning,” Lula said. “I’ve got one of those feelings.”
    “I told you he’s not in the cellar,” Pooka said. “End of discussion. Go bother someone else.”
    “Thank you for your time,” I said to Pooka. “We appreciate your help.”
    He did a stiff-armed gesture at the door.
“Go!”
    “One last thing,” Lula said. “Could I touch your power amulet?”
    “No!”
    I tugged Lula out of the office, into the hall, and Pooka slammed his door shut and locked it.
    “He’s got issues,” Lula said. “I don’t think those loose pants are doing anything for him.”
    “I want to go back to Zeta. I’d like to talk to Brian Karwatt.”
    “What about Julie Ruley?”
    “I know where she lives. I can catch her later.”
    We crossed the field back to the Zeta house. No one was picketing anymore. A couple guys were lounging on the small second-floor balcony over the front door. There was movement inside on the first floor. We set foot on the stairs leading up to the front porch and Lula stopped and sniffed. The smell of fried onions and burgers was being sucked out of the kitchen and hung in the air surrounding Zeta house. The cook was at work getting lunch ready.
    “That smells good,” Lula said, “but I got my mind set on crispy onion rings and that smells like plain old fried onions.”
    Splosh!
Lula got water ballooned. Direct hit. I immediately jumped aside.
    “What the Sam Hill?” Lula yelled. “Son of a peach basket.” She looked at me. “What was that?”
    “Water balloon, but it smells like it was filled with beer. I think it was a beer balloon.”
    Lula pulled her gun out of her purse, fired off a fast four rounds at the balcony, and everyone scattered.
    “Good thing I remembered to bring my gun today,” she said, squinting up at the balcony. “Did I hit anyone?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I had beer in my eyes.”
    Not that it mattered. Lula was a terrible shot. She had a six-inch lavender afro going today. She shook her head, beer sprayed out, and she looked like nothing had happened to her hair. She stripped off her orange tank top, wrung it out, and put it back on.
    “Just like new,” Lula said. “Lucky I don’t mind the smell of beer.”
    We went inside and the room cleared.
    “I want to talk to Brian Karwatt,” I yelled. “Is Brian here?”
    Silence.
    “This don’t seem like such a party house to me,” Lula said. “All they got is one beer balloon. What’s with that? Where’d everybody go?”
    “I imagine they aren’t used to being shot at.”
    “See, that’s what’s so good about living in my ethnic neighborhood. You get used to stuff like that. I live in a melting pot. We got illegal felons, legal felons, moron gangbangers, and some dopers. They’re shooting at each other all the time.”
    “Maybe you should move.”
    “I suppose, but I can afford the rent, and I got a big closet. I figure I just have to sit tight and wait for it to get gentrified around me.”
    Lula lived in a small two-story Victorian-style house with gingerbread trim. The house was currently painted pink and yellow and lavender. It was the only house in the neighborhood with not a smidgeon of graffiti because if some idiot came near the house with a can of spray paint the lesbian owner would beat the crap out of him. The owner lived on the ground floor. Lula was one of two people who lived on the second floor. And a seventy-five-year-old woman lived in the attic. Apparently she thought she was Katharine Hepburn, but aside from that she managed very nicely, according to Lula.
    •••
    We left the Zeta house and went to the student center. Julie Ruley wasn’t in the newspaper office, wasn’t in the food court, wasn’t in sight.
    “This beer smell coming out of my clothes is making me hungry,” Lula said. “I need onion rings to go with the