“Now.”

“Will it take long? I drove my mom here.”

“Can she get someone else to take her home?”

“I guess. Is there night court? How does this work?”

He was asking too many questions. And I could see the panic pooling in his eyes. He was going to run. I pulled cuffs out of my purse and click! One was around his wrist. His eyes got wide, and his mouth dropped open, and he looked at the cuff like it was reptilian.

“I don’t want to make a scene. Just quietly and calmly walk out with me,” I said.

“What’s going on?” a woman said. “Why did you put handcuffs on Lenny? Hey, Maureen, look at this.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Lenny and I were surrounded by Pickerals.

“Nothing dramatic going on,” I said. “I’m just taking Lenny downtown to reschedule his court date.”

“Is this over the toilet paper?” a man asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s not fair. He gave it all back.”

“And it was for a good cause,” another man said. “He was protesting. You ever have to use one of them restrooms on the Turnpike? That toilet paper’s like wax paper.”

Okay, here’s the thing. I actually hated the toilet paper in the Turnpike restrooms, so I understood the protest. Problem was, the only thing worse than the wax paper toilet paper was no toilet paper at all.

An older woman bustled in. “I’m his mother. What’s this?” she said, taking in the handcuffs.

“It’s about the toilet paper,” someone said.

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Mrs. Pickeral said. “It was toilet paper. And it wasn’t even any good.”

“Besides, it’s his life’s work,” a woman said. “He’s a crusader. He’s like Robin Hood.”

“Yeah,” everyone murmured. “Robin Hood.”

“He still has to keep his court date,” I told them.

“There’s no court tonight,” Mrs. Pickeral said. “And I need him to give me a ride home. I’ll make sure he goes tomorrow morning.”

I heard this a lot. No one ever showed up in the morning.

“Look at him,” Mrs. Pickeral said. “Does he look like a criminal?”

My nose was running and my eyes were feeling puffy from the flowers. And I was caring less and less about Lenny Pickeral and his stupid toilet paper crime spree.

“Fine,” I said, unlocking the cuffs. “I’m letting him go, but I’m holding all of you responsible. If Lenny doesn’t show up at court tomorrow morning to get rebonded, you’ll all be accessories to a crime.”

That was a crock of doodie, but I felt like I had to say something. And it was at that instant that God rewarded me for showing compassion and letting Lenny walk. Or maybe it was the bottle that was back in my bag that brought me luck. I turned from Lenny, and from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a head sticking up above the mourning masses. It was Butch Goodey. Lenny’s capture fee would have bought me a meatball sub. Goodey’s capture fee would pay my rent and then some.

Goodey was up by the casket, paying condolences to the family. I hugged the wall, coming at him from the rear. I had no clue how to take him down. I didn’t have a stun gun or pepper spray. I wasn’t about to shoot him. Even if I could get the cuffs on him, I didn’t think I could stop him from fleeing. I stood to one side and waited for him to move from the casket area.

“Yo,” I said, stepping in front of him. “How’s it going?”

His expression was blank for a moment while he connected the dots, and then recognition slammed into him.

“You again!” he said, wheeling around, looking for an exit, fixing on the door to the lobby.

“Wait!” I said, grabbing the back of his jacket. “We need to talk. We can deal.”

“I’m not going to jail,” he said. And he took off for the door. I still had my fingers wrapped into his jacket, and I held tight, trying to slow him down with my weight, not having any luck with it. He was knocking people over, pushing them aside, muscling his way to the lobby.

Grandma was just inside the open double doors, standing beside the cookie station. “Hey!” she said to Butch. “What the heck’s going on with you and my granddaughter?”

“Get outta my way,” Butch said.

“That’s no way to talk to a old lady,” Grandma said, and she whacked Butch in the shins with her crutch.

“Ow!” Butch said, stopping just long enough for me to bash him in the gonads with my purse. Butch sucked air, went down to his knees, and doubled over.

I rushed at him with FlexiCuffs and bound his ankles. Twice.

“Boy,” Grandma said. “You pack a wallop with that purse. What have you got in it?”

“Uncle Pip’s lucky bottle.”

Now I had Butch rolling around on the floor of the funeral parlor. I sort of had him captured, but I had no way to get him into my car. I couldn’t drag him, and he couldn’t walk with his ankles bound. If I cuffed his hands and released the shackles on his ankles, he’d run away.

“I need help getting him to my car,” I said to the crowd of people clustered around us.

Everyone shuffled their feet. No one volunteered.

“For goodness sakes,” I said. “This man is a felon.”

The funeral director, Milton Shreebush, rushed over. “Holy cats,” he said, looking down at Butch.

“He’s FTA,” Grandma said. “My granddaughter just made a bond enforcement maneuver.”

“I see that,” Milton said. “But he can’t stay on the floor like this.”

“Then help me drag him to my car,” I told him.

Milton reached for Butch, and Butch growled and grabbed him. Milton slapped at Butch, and they rolled around, locked together.

“Help!” Milton yelled. “Get the police. Somebody do something!”

I stepped in and hit Butch in the head with my purse. Butch shook his head, stunned, and Milton scrambled away.

“That didn’t work so good,” Grandma said.

Butch was crabbing around, waving his arms, trying to grab people, and everyone was keeping their distance. I figured my choices were hit him with the bottle and knock him out, call the police, call Rangeman, or let him go. I decided to go with Rangeman.

It took Rangeman five minutes to respond to my call for help. Two big guys wearing Rangeman black uniforms and full utility belts calmly walked up to Butch and looked at him. Butch was still on the floor, sweating and snarling and spitting and making threatening grabbing motions.

One of the men gave Butch a bunch of volts with a stun gun. The Rangeman guy didn’t move fast enough, and Butch grabbed the gun and threw it across the room.

“Hunh,” the Rangeman guy said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Been there, done that.”

“Are you sure he’s human?”

“Maybe you could hook a chain to the FlexiCuffs on his ankles and drag him behind your car,” I said.

“We tried that once, and Ranger didn’t like it,” the guy said. “You do something twice that Ranger doesn’t like, and you’re out of a job and damaged.”

“We need to clear the area,” the other guy said. “Get rid of the audience.”

Most of the gawkers had gotten bored and moved on, and I was able to persuade the few remaining to think about refreshments. I was guiding them to the cookie table, and I heard a sound like a baseball bat hitting a sack of sand. Thwack! I turned and saw that Butch was sleeping.

“Is he okay?” I asked them.

“Yeah,” the Rangeman guy said. “He’ll be fine. He just had to calm down. Would you like us to deliver him to the police station for you?”

“Yes. That would be great,” I said.

They cuffed Butch’s massive hands behind his back and dragged him away.

“They seem like nice young men,” Grandma said.

I TOOK GRANDMA home and called Ranger.

“Have you got a minute?” I asked him.

“As many as you need.”

I drove to the center of the city, turned onto Ranger’s street, and parked in the Rangeman garage. I took the elevator to the seventh floor and pressed the intercom button next to Ranger’s door. I could have just gone in. I had a key, but I thought that might send the wrong message.