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Main—six or seven blocks down. I don’t think he works Sundays, although we are gettin’ close to Christmas so he might be there. Why don’t you call first?”
    I grabbed the broom and helped her pick up the dog hair. “No, I think I’ll just walk over there and check.”
    She gave me a worried look. “Why don’t you take Hollywith you? She went out to get some Jell-O and soup for Meg, but she should be back fairly soon.”
    “Meg’s still sick?”
    “She’s on the mend now, but that was one nasty bug.” Vera scooped up the dustpan of hair and said, “Why don’t you have a seat? Holly’ll be back in a bit.”
    Now, I’m not very good at sitting and waiting, so I said, “I think I’ll just head over there.”
    “I’d feel better if you waited.”
    “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” I laughed and said, “I mean, how seriously can you take a guy who looks like a stinkbug?”
    She practically spilled the dustpan. “A what?”
    “A stinkbug. Didn’t you think he looked like a stinkbug last night with those tails and that hair slicked back?”
    All of a sudden she just busted up. And she laughed so hard that she wound up sitting on the floor with tears running down her cheeks. “A stink … a stinkbug!” She pushed the tears away and said, “I’m never ever going to be intimidated by Royce Petersen again. The next time he starts bossing me around I’ll just tell myself … he’s a big stinkbug!” That started her laughing all over again, so I said ’bye and clanked out the door.
    The whole way up Main Street I tried to put a finger on that tingle in my brain, but it was like chasing an itch in the middle of your back—you scratch all around it and it kind of fades away, but you never really get it.
    Now, the seven-hundred block was farther than I’d ever walked. Down West Main, anyway. And it’s not that seven blocks is a long way to go, it’s just that after aboutMelvin’s Jewelers in the one-hundred block, West Main starts going downhill in a hurry.
    All along Main there are dingy little one-room shops. Carpet stores and bridal shops and travel agencies—and you wonder, who goes there? I mean, there are big carpet stores and bridal shops and travel agencies right up the street in the mall—who’s going to get their wedding dress at a place where the mannequins are missing fingers and noses?
    Petersen’s Printing wasn’t hard to find. It was the first shop past a service alley in an old two-story brick building. The windows were kind of milky with dirt and covered with burglar bars, and there were bamboo window shades resting cockeyed on stacks of books and papers.
    The sign propped up in the window was dusty and torn, and said Closed. But there were some fluorescent lights on, so I tried the door anyway. It was locked. I whacked at the window with my knuckles and waited. I did it again, and waited some more. Then I peeked past the shades, but all I could see was a desk buried in papers. I decided to see if there was a back door somewhere.
    The service alley didn’t look too inviting. I mean, even though it was the middle of the day, no sunlight was getting in, and garbage seemed to ooze up through the gravel. And I had almost convinced myself to just try back later when I noticed a car parked in front of a roll-up door. I took a few steps down the alley, and when I got a good look at the car, I knew right off—it belonged to Mr. Petersen. It was shiny black with edges that were kind of rounded and side panels that half covered the wheels. It looked like a giant stinkbug.
    I circled the car, wondering what a guy who worked in such a messy place was doing with such an immaculate vehicle. The bumpers were like mirrors, and the body didn’t have a fingerprint on it.
    I didn’t mean to touch it. And I swear I only brushed against the bumper, but all of a sudden that car starts wailing and beeping like an ambulance. I jumped a mile in the air, and before I’d even had a chance