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against the wall and gave me a lot of Bob kisses. I told him he was a good boy and thanked him for the kisses and he seemed happy with that. I hooked him up to his leash and walked him around several blocks. He pooped twice, and I didn’t pick it up. My feeling is if God wanted me to pick up dog poop he would have made it look like diamonds and smell like roses.
    I fed Bob and helped myself to a frozen waffle. I was paging through my emails when I got a text from Lula saying she needed a ride, and she saw on the news that protesters were already collecting at the firehouse. Twenty minutes later I had Lula in my car, and I was driving back toward the Burg.
    â€œIs something wrong with your car?” I asked her.
    â€œNo. My baby’s just fine, but I wasn’t gonna take it into no protest zone. Someone throws rocks at
your
car and turns it over wheels up, it’s no loss. I mean, sure it’s your transportation, but it’s not a classic like mine, right? I got a red Firebird. You don’t never want anybody throwing rocks at a red Firebird. And it’s got a custom sound system. That hummer’ll shake the fillings out of your teeth when I crank it up. It’s got bass, you see what I’m saying?”
    I cut my eyes to her. “Next time you drive.”
    â€œYeah, I’ll do that. What do you think of my outfit? We might get to be on television if this thing gets out of hand, so I want to look good. I hear you shouldn’t wear stuff with too much pattern, and that’s why I went with this solid purple tank top.”
    Lula was wearing five-inch platform stilettos, a skirt that barely covered her ass, and a purple sequined tank top that was two sizes too small for her watermelon-size breasts.
    â€œI like the tank top,” I said. “Lots of sparkle.”
    â€œIt’s from my Vegas collection from when I was a ’ho. I got a lot of action when I wore this top. ’Course some of that was on account of I had a good corner back then.”
    I got a block away from the firehouse and passed two buses that were parked on the street.
    â€œThey’re the protester buses,” Lula said. “They bring in the professional protesters just in case there’s not enough locals. It’s just like Morelli said. And I read an article about this, too. I’m pretty sure you could get a degree in protesting if you go to the right college. It’s a big thing now.”
    â€œI don’t think there’s a degree in protesting.”
    â€œThere’s a lot to learn,” Lula said. “You gotta know about making signs and holding them up in the right fashion. And there’s ways to be obnoxious and provoke a fight. Then you gotta shout slogans and such.”
    There were about sixty people milling around in front of the firehouse. They looked peaceful enough, holding signs, taking selfies on their smartphones. A bunch of uniformed cops stood on the perimeter. No riot gear. No nervous pacing. No guns drawn. Looking like they’d rather be someplace else.
    â€œThis here’s disappointing,” Lula said. “I expected some nastiness.”
    I parked a block away, and we walked back to the firehouse.“Remember, we’re here to tag Zero Slick. We’re not getting involved in the protest.”
    â€œNothing to get involved in,” Lula said. “This is a yawn. And I don’t get these signs some of them are holding. They say ‘Hell, no, we won’t go!’ What’s that mean, anyway?”
    â€œI think they’re left over from the sixties when people were protesting the Vietnam War,” I said. “Someone probably grabbed the wrong signs from the warehouse.”
    â€œHey,” Lula said. “Look over by the street light. It’s your granny and two other old ladies. And they got signs.” Lula waved at Grandma. “Yoo-hoo! Granny!”
    Grandma turned and saw us and waved her sign. It said