A young woman peered out at me from behind a security chain. “Yes?”
“Are you Kitty Petras?”
“What do you want?”
“I'm looking for your husband, Eugene. Is he at home?”
“No.”
“I heard a man's voice in there. I thought it sounded like Eugene.”
Kitty Petras was rail thin with a pinched face and large brown eyes. She wore no makeup. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wasn't pretty, but she wasn't unattractive, either. Mostly, she was nothing. She had the forgettable features that abused women get after years of trying to make themselves invisible.
She gave me a wary look. “You know Eugene?”
“I work for his bonding agent. Eugene missed his court date yesterday, and we'd like him to reschedule.” Not so much a lie as a half-truth. First we'd reschedule him, and then we'd lock him up in a dingy, smelly cell until his new date came around.
“I don't know . . .”
Eugene reeled into my line of sight through the crack in the door. “What's going on?”
Kitty stepped away. “This woman would like you to reschedule your court date.”
Eugene shoved his face up close. All nose and chin and squinty red eyes and 100-proof breath. “What?”
I repeated the baloney about rescheduling and moved to the side so he would be forced to open the door if he wanted to see me.
The chain slid free and clanked against the jamb. “You're shitting me, right?” Eugene said.
I positioned myself halfway into the door, adjusted my pocketbook on my shoulder, and lied my little heart out. “This will only take a few minutes. We need you to stop in at the courthouse and register for a new date.”
“Yeah, well, you know what I have to say to that?” He turned his back to me, dropped his pants and bent over. “Kiss my hairy white ass.”
He was facing in the wrong direction to give him a snootful of pepper spray, so I reached into my Levi's and pulled out the stun gun. I'd never used it, but it didn't seem complicated. I leaned forward, firmly pressed the gadget against Eugene's butt, and hit the go button. Eugene gave a short squeak and crumpled to the floor like a sack of flour.
“My God,” Kitty cried, “what have you done?”
I looked down at Eugene, who was lying motionless, eyes glazed, drawers at his knees. He was breathing a little shallowly, but I thought that was to be expected from a man who'd just taken enough juice to light up a small room. His color was pasty white, so nothing had changed there. “Stun gun,” I said. “According to the brochure it leaves no lasting damage.”
“Too bad. I was hoping you'd killed him.”
“Maybe you should fix his pants,” I said to Kitty. There was already too much ugliness in this world without my having to look at Eugene's Mr. Droopy.
When she had him zipped up I prodded him with the toe of my shoe and got minimal response. “Probably it'd be best if we get him out to my car before he comes around.”
“How're we gonna do that?” she asked.
“Guess we'll have to drag him.”
“No way. I don't want no part of this. Lordy, this is terrible. He'll beat the daylights out of me for this.”
“He can't beat you if he's in jail.”
“He'll beat me when he gets out.”
“If you're still here.”
Eugene made a feeble attempt to move his mouth, and Kitty yelped. “He's gonna get up! Do something!”