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BINGO MATTERS .
    â€œNow, that’s a good sign,” Lula said. “It makes a real statement.”
    We didn’t see Slick outside, so we went into the firehouse and stood to the back of the meeting room. There was a podium and an American flag at the far end, and rows of folding chairs had been set up for the audience. The room could probably accommodate seventy to eighty people if you squashed them in, but so far there were only fifteen people there.
    â€œWe must be early,” Lula said.
    I checked my watch. “Nope. We’re right on time.”
    A woman came out and introduced the speaker. He was a nice-looking man in a blue suit. Glasses. Sandy blond hair. In his fifties.
    Lula leaned forward. “Who did she say this guy was? I didn’t catch it.”
    â€œHe’s running for some sort of council seat to replace a man who died.”
    The candidate at the podium started to speak, and all the protesters filed in from outside.
    â€œI see him!” Lula said. “I’d know him anywhere.”
    â€œSlick?”
    â€œNo. The television guy. The one with the greased-up hair and the fake tan. And he’s got a camera guy with him. Do I look okay? This could be my big chance. Is my hair okay?”
    Lula was wearing her blond Farrah Fawcett wig. I was guessing it was also from the Vegas ’ho collection. On anyone else the whole deal would look ridiculous, but it was oddly spectacular on Lula.
    â€œThe hair’s good,” I said.
    â€œIt shows off my beautiful mahogany complexion,” Lula said.
    This was true.
    The problem with trying to find a five-two man in a crowd is that he doesn’t stand out. It would be easier to spot Slick if he was six-five. I went seat by seat, row by row, trying to see around the signs. The protesters shouted at the poor man at the podium, and Grandma and her friends contributed to the chaos by chanting “We want bingo! We want bingo!”
    â€œI’m getting a headache,” Lula said. “The only people here who make any sense are your granny and her lady friends.”
    A woman carrying a HELL, NO sign tried to shove Lula out of the way so she could get to the front, and Lula planted her stiletto heel into the woman’s foot.
    â€œI’m injured,” the woman shrieked. “This fat bitch broke my foot.”
    Lula leaned in and narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Say what?”
    â€œFat bitch,” the woman said. “Fat ’ho bitch.”
    Lula reached for her purse, and I grabbed her arm. “Do
not
shoot her,” I said. “I’ll be really pissed off if you shoot her.”
    â€œHow about if I just shoot her in the knee?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œOkay then, can I punch her in the face?”
    â€œNo.”
    Grandma was at my side. “What’s going on? You need some muscle? I got my girls with me.”
    â€œNothing’s going on,” I said.
    People were collecting around us, there was a lot of jostling, and voices were raised. I saw the television guy moving in our direction.
    â€œWe need to get out of here,” I said to Lula.
    â€œI’m on it,” Lula said. “Stick close.”
    I grabbed Grandma’s wrist and tugged her after me. An object flew past and hit Lula in the back of the head. It exploded on impact and gushed red. My first thought was bomb. My second was tomato. I turned to look behind me and took a raw egg to the forehead.
    The entire room had broken out into a free-for-all. The police rushed in and set off a flash grenade. People were screaming and trampling one another to get to the door. Lula detoured into the firehouse kitchen, and I followed her, dragging Grandma and the ladies along with us. We exited through the back door into an alley. Grandma and the ladies ditched their signs, and we crept around the building and looked out at the street. Theprotesters were clustered in front of the lone television guy and his cameraman.