I looked out at the mall, and then I looked at Stuart and his hot dog concession. “She's right, Stuart,” I said. “This mall is empty.”
“Yeah, but look, I've got all these hot dogs on the grill.”
I scrounged in the bottom of my pocketbook and came up with a twenty. “Here's enough money to cover them. Throw the hot dogs in the trash and close up.”
“I don't know,” Stuart said. “They're really good hot dogs. It doesn't seem right to throw them away.”
I did some mental screaming. “Okay, then wrap them up. We'll take them with us.”
“I want two chili dogs,” Lula said. “And then I want two with sauerkraut and mustard. And do you have any of them curly fries?”
Stuart looked at me. “How about you? How do you want the rest of the hot dogs?”
“Plain.”
“Hunk-uh,” Lula said. “You better get some chili dogs for Connie. She's gonna be real disappointed she sees my chili
dogs, and she's left with some plain-ass dog.”
“Okay, okay! Two more chili dogs,” I told Stuart, “and then just put the rest in a bag.”
“How about soda?” Lula asked. “I can't eat all these hot dogs without soda.”
I ordered three medium fries and three large root beers, and forked over another twenty.
Stuart called his boss and lied his heart out about how he was sick and throwing up all over the place, and that he'd sold all his hot dogs, and no one was in the mall anyway on account of the weather and he was going home.
We pulled the front grate, locked up the concession and left with our bags of food and soda.
The parking lot had some remnants of slush, but the sleet had turned to driving rain. We wedged Stuart and the bags between us and rode in silence back to Trenton. From time to time I checked Stuart's expression. His face was pale, and I suspected he hadn't tried very hard to make his trial date. He looked like a person who'd given his best shot to denial and had lost. I guess being short and cute didn't help all that much when it was time to grow up.
If he hadn't shot up police cars he probably wouldn't even have needed bail. And if he'd played by the rules he probably would have gotten away with probation and fine. New Jersey was up to its armpits in criminals. It didn't have a lot of room in the prison system for amateurs like Stuart.
Lula took a turnoff into center city, stopped for a light and the Nissan stalled out. She started it up again; it ran rough for a few seconds and went into another stall.
“Maybe you're not doing the clutch right,” I suggested.
“I guess I know how to do a clutch,” Lula said. “Looks to me like you got a lemon car.”
“Let me try it,” I said, opening my door, running to the driver's side.
Lula stood at roadside and watched. “This car is busted,” she said. “You know what I'm telling you?”
I started it up. The car bucked forward a few feet and died.
“Maybe we should look under the hood,” Lula said. “Maybe you got a cat in your engine. My neighbor, Midgie, once got a cat in his engine. Cat looked like it had been put through a food processor by the time Midgie figured out to check under the hood.”
Stuart made a face that said, Yuk!
“Happens all the time,” Lula said. “They get cold and they go to the warm engine. Then they fall asleep and when you go to start the car . . . cat stew.”
I popped the hood and Lula and I checked for cats.
“Guess that wasn't it,” Lula said. “I don't see any cat guts.”
We slammed the hood down, and Lula got back behind the wheel. “I can do this,” she said. “All I gotta do is race the engine, so it don't stall.”
We drove two more blocks and cringed when the light turned red ahead. Lula eased up to the last car in line. “No sweat,” she said. “Got this made.” She raced the engine. The truck idled rough and started to stall. Lula raced the engine some more and somehow the truck lurched forward and smashed into the car in front.