“Yeah, as long as Mr. Jingles likes extra crispy,” Lula said.

Lula and I got out of the Camry and scurried across the yard and up the stairs. I found the key, opened the door, and stuck my head in.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer. Also no sound of alligator yawning, alligator running, or alligator sniffing out food.

I crept in and looked around. No stacks of money sitting out on the kitchen counter, dining table, end table. And still no sign of alligator, although the apartment smelled gamey. I walked farther into the apartment and there he was… over six feet of alligator behind the couch that sat in the middle of the room. His eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

“G-g-g-gator,” I whispered to Lula.

“I see him,” Lula said. “Where you want to go first? You want me to get him to the side of the room so you can look in the bedroom?”

“Yeah, that would be good.”

“Fetch,” Lula said. And she threw a piece of chicken across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a big grease splotch on the wall.

Mr. Jingles swiveled his head toward the chicken but didn’t move.

“What the heck kind of gator is this?” Lula said. “This here’s Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken. You don’t let Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken hit the floor and lay there. This here’s extra crispy.”

“Throw one closer.”

She threw a piece right at him. It hit him in the head and bounced off. Snap, he ate it.

“Did you see that?” Lula said. “He didn’t even taste that chicken. What’s with that?”

“Drop one a couple feet over.”

“You bet,” Lula said. “Here you go, big guy. Here’s a wing.”

The gator moved his body in slow motion, making a right turn, and then he lunged and snap. Good-bye, wing.

“Whoa,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he can do that lunge thing. That’s like the death lunge.”

She threw a leg close to the wall, and Mr. Jingles scrabbled after it, moving faster, catching on to the game.

“Hurry up and go around the other side of the couch,” Lula said to me. “Good thing we got two buckets of chicken. Mr. Jingles isn’t exactly a dainty eater.”

I ran around the couch, keeping my eyes on Mr. Jingles. I scooted into the bedroom and shut the door. No stacks of money out in the open here, either. I went through the dresser, the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. I’ve seen drug money collected, and it’s almost always in a backpack or a gym bag. I looked in the bathroom. Very bare-bones. No drug money. I carefully opened the door and looked out. Mr. Jingles was stalking Lula around the couch. Lula was throwing chicken everywhere, and Mr. Jingles would snap it up and come back at Lula.

“I’m running outta chicken,” Lula yelled. “What the heck am I supposed to do when I run outta chicken?”

“How much chicken do you have left?”

“Four pieces.”

“Try to get him back to the other side of the room so I can get out of the bedroom.”

“Okay, but hurry up. I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at me.”

Lula threw a thigh across the room. Mr. Jingles gave the chunk of chicken a cursory glance and turned his attention back to Lula.

“Uh-oh,” Lula said. “I think he’s figured out the chicken comes from the bucket.”

“Then throw the bucket across the room. Just don’t leave me trapped here.”

Lula whistled. “Here, boy. Nice Mr. Jingles. Go get the bucket.” Lula wound up to throw the bucket, and Mr. Jingles lunged at her. “Yow!” Lula said, staggering back, falling over the ottoman.

The chicken bucket flew out of her hand, hit the open door, and bounced off onto the porch. Mr. Jingles rushed after the bucket, ate the bucket, ate the remaining three pieces, and lumbered down the stairs.

I was out of the bedroom and Lula was up off the floor, and we were mouths-open, watching Mr. Jingles step onto the cement pad at the bottom of the stairs and amble across the yard to the Camry. Connie frantically powered the window up and looked at us with her what-the-fuck expression. Mr. Jingles nosed the Camry, gave Connie the eye, and waddled off down the alley.

“This ain’t good,” Lula said. “Chopper gonna be mad you let his alligator loose.”

“I’m not worried about Chopper. I’m worried about the dogs and cats and kids in the neighborhood.”

“Maybe we should call the alligator police,” Lula said.

Someone screamed half a block away.

“Okay, I guess we don’t have to call the police,” Lula said. “And it looks like Connie’s on the phone. I don’t imagine she’s ordering pizza. We should finish up here.”

“I can’t find the money.”

“Maybe Chopper took it with him.”

“That’s not the pattern.”

We looked around the room.

“Not a lot of places to hide a big bag of money,” Lula said.

“The couch,” I said to her. “Mr. Jingles was always by the couch.”

We pulled the cushions off. No money.

“Help me lift it,” I said to Lula.

We picked the couch up and looked under. Large duffle bag, zippered shut. Chopper had carved out part of the couch. I snagged the bag and looked inside. Lots of money.

A car horn beeped from the alley. Connie was telling us to get out of the apartment.

“We’re done here,” I said to Lula. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I hear a siren. I bet it’s the alligator police.”

I ran to the door, flew down the stairs, and jumped into the back of the Camry with Lula a hair behind me. Connie drove down the alley, and just before the cross street, we passed Mr. Jingles steadily moving along, looking like he knew where he was going.

Connie gave an involuntary shiver. I gnawed on my lower lip. And Lula took a disposable wet paper towel from her purse and wiped chicken grease off her hands.

“So that went well,” Lula said.

“We let an alligator loose in the neighborhood!” I told her.

“Yeah, but aside from that, it went well.”

“Did you call animal control?” I asked Connie.

“Yes. They should be here any minute.” Connie turned onto Cotter. “How much money did we get?”

I pawed through the bag. “Rough estimate would be close to a hundred thousand. Might be more.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Lula said, “but it’s not enough.”

“There should be a lot more at the funeral home,” Connie said. “I’m guessing that’s a major collection point.”

I leaned forward and put my head between my knees. I wasn’t cut out for this. My mother was right. I needed a nice, boring job at the personal products factory. Maybe I should stop being a bounty hunter and marry Morelli. Of course, Morelli wasn’t sure he wanted to marry me right now, but I might be able to change his mind. I could go over to his house wearing my red thong and a good attitude and catch him at a weak moment. Then we’d get married immediately before he changed his mind. And knowing Morelli, I’d get pregnant. And it would be a boy.

“I’m not naming him Joseph,” I said. “It’s too confusing.”

“Who?” Lula said.

“Did I just say that out loud?” I asked her.

“Yeah. What the heck were you talkin’ about?”

“It’s not important.”

“I tell you what’s important,” Lula said. “Fried chicken. I can’t get it outta my head ever since I had to watch Mr. Jingles eat all that extra crispy. I think we need to stop at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on the way across town.”

“We’ll stop on the way home,” Connie said. “If we don’t do the funeral home right away, I’m going to lose my nerve.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Lula said, “but that’s the wrong attitude. That’s delayin’ pleasure, and you do that, and you might never get to the pleasure. Like, what if we get shot or arrested or something and then we can’t get to Cluck-in-a-Bucket? You see what I’m sayin’? Like, we might be dead and then there’d be no extra crispy ever again. And all because we decided to go rob some crazy drug dealer before goin’ to Cluck-in-a-Bucket.”

I had my head back between my knees. I didn’t want to die or go to jail. And if I got out of this unscathed, I was going straight to Rangeman. I was going to strip Ranger naked and squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of him. Then I’d marry Morelli. Somewhere deep in my panic-fogged mind, I suspected this was faulty reasoning, but I couldn’t get a grip on it, what with all the nausea and inability to breathe properly.