“It’s a girlie baby shirt,” the kid said.
Carl threw his arms in the air in an I-told-you-so-and-I-knew-this-shirt-was-stupid gesture. He ripped the shirt off, turned around, pulled his diaper down, and mooned me.
“That’s my boy,” Diesel said.
Carl pulled his diaper up, grabbed an egg from my carton, and threw it at the spike-faced guy. It missed the guy, smashed against the dairy display case, and slimed down the glass. Carl reached for a second egg and Diesel scooped him up and held him at arm’s length.
“We’re going to have to work on your throw,” Diesel said to Carl.
“Get him out of here now,” I said to Diesel. “I’ll finish shopping and meet you at the car.”
Diesel tucked Carl under his arm and sauntered off. I looked at the spike-faced jerk, and it was like grade school all over again and I was back to being Buzzard Beak. I marched up to him, smashed an egg on his forehead, and dumped the remaining rice pudding on his purple hair.
“Moron,” I said to him.
And then I turned on my heel and wheeled my cart past him, down the bread aisle. Last I looked, he was tasting the pudding that was slopping into his ears and glopping down the back of his neck. I wasn’t nearly so calm. I’d never smashed an egg on someone or given anyone a pudding shampoo. I was simultaneously horrified and exhilarated. I did deep breathing through English muffins, and by the time I got to the hot dog rolls, I was able to relax my grip on the cart. No one from security was stalking me. Spike-Face wasn’t running after me with retaliatory eggs. And no one was going to tell my mother. I was golden.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I love my little historic house. I love that it has a history, that people have celebrated holidays and conceived children and grown old in the house. I love parking in front of it and looking at the door and the onion lamps and knowing its mine, and that I’m now part of the continuum. And I know this is a scary thought, but I like walking into my dark living room from outside, turning the light on to make everything happy and cozy, and having Diesel at my side. How hideous is that?
Cat 7143 uncurled himself on the couch, stretched, gave Carl the once-over, and re-curled.
“Maybe I should work on a recipe,” I said to Diesel.
“Would it involve a steak?”
“It could. It happens that I bought a couple steaks at the store. If I make you a steak, will you sleep on the couch?”
“Yes.”
“For real?”
“No,” Diesel said. “Will you make me a steak anyway?”
I followed him into the kitchen and watched him dump the bags on the counter. “You could make your own steak.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a back rub if you make me a steak.”
I put the milk, butter, cheese, and lunch meat in the refrigerator. “Thanks, but the deal is I’ll make you a steak if you promise not to give me a back rub.”
“Afraid to let me get my hands on you?”
“Absolutely.”
I pulled the steak out of the bag, and Diesel’s phone rang. Diesel asked for a location, said he was on his way, and disconnected.
“What was that about?” I asked him.
“It was Mark. He’s on Pickering Wharf, and he needs a ride.”
“Not good,” I said to Diesel. “I expect this means Wulf has the charm.”
“Probably. We’ll find out in a few minutes.”
“I’m going to sit this one out. You don’t need me to handle anything, and I need cooking time.”
Diesel took a banana off the counter. He peeled it, gave half to Carl, and ate the other half. “Keep the doors locked and don’t let anyone in. Call me immediately if you sense something weird.”