Looking to my left, I see that Lorelei just arrived. And she’s wearing a maroon-and-gold silk blouse with matching maroon dress pants: Arizona Sun Devils’ colors, the team that Notre Dame is playing today. She’s going to be killed!
I see her lift her arm and point in the opposite direction that Griffin is currently looking and send her a thumbs-up before sprinting away. She’s on her own; I can’t save her from crazy Notre Dame fans now.
Running at top speed and yelling for people to get out of my way, I make it to the Andersons’ house, three houses down, in record time.
“Where’s the grill?” I ask the first person I come to through gasps of air.
“The burgers aren’t done yet,” a guy with a giant navy-blue foam finger tells me as he uses the foam finger to scratch his nose.
“WHERE’S THE FUCKING GRILL?!” I scream at him, pulling my gun out of the holster under the back of my shirt.
He doesn’t even bat an eye when he sees the 9mm in my hand. Half of the people on this street carry guns. Football season is serious business. Plus, most of the people here know that my family all works in some sort of law enforcement.
“If you’re that hungry, I heard someone brought Buffalo Wing Dip a few houses down.” He points his foam finger back in the direction I came.
“There’s a criminal cooking burgers on your grill. Where is the grill?” I ask again as I check the safety on my gun.
“Bob Anderson is a criminal? Damn, it’s always the quiet ones,” foam-finger guy states with a sad shake of his head.
I’m going to take his foam finger and shove it up his ass in three seconds.
“No, not Bob Anderson. His name is Martin, he skipped bail, and rumor has it he’s manning the grill at this house,” I tell him through clenched teeth.
“You mean McFadden? I just met him. Nice guy. And he has a cute dog.”
Sweet mother of God…
“The grill’s around back,” he tells me with another point of his finger. “Don’t shoot the dog!”
Looking over my shoulder to make sure Griffin isn’t anywhere in sight, I take off running again, keeping myself pressed to the side of the house as I move quickly with my gun in front of me. Peeking around the back corner, I see the grill about ten yards away from the house. And I see McFadden with his back to me, all alone with Tinkerdoodle sitting by his feet staring up at him, hoping one of the burgers he’s flipping drops on the ground.
Edging out from around the side of the house, I hold my gun out in front of me and creep closer, careful not to make a sound. When I’m within three feet of him, I check my back pocket to make sure the zip ties I usually carry are still back there, ready to be used when I tackle him and secure his hands behind his back.
“Hey, McFadden! Are those burgers almost done?”
I jump when I hear the yell from foam-finger ass**le behind me and McFadden turns around from the grill with a giant spatula in his hand and a smile on his face. The smile dies when he sees me standing here with my gun pointed right at his chest.
“You can have the first burger. Just don’t shoot me!” he says nervously.
“You are really pissing me off, Martin. Put the spatula down and let’s do this calmly, without making a scene.”
I can hear people talking behind me and roll my eyes when I realize the backyard is filling up with onlookers, wanting to see what’s going on.
“Just because she brings a gun, she gets the first burger? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” someone whispers.
Michelle Anderson, Bob’s wife, comes outside. “It’s okay, everyone. That’s Buddy’s daughter, Kennedy. She’s like that. Did Martin forget to bring a covered dish? I don’t think you need to shoot him for that.”
Can I just catch a break here? Seriously.
“Michelle, this man is a criminal. Can you please get everyone inside and out of danger?” I plead with her.
“This is so exciting. It’s like an episode of Cops. Is someone filming this?” Michelle asks, completely ignoring my request as I move closer to McFadden.
Tinkerdoodle lets out a yippy bark and growls at me.
“It’s okay, princess. She isn’t going to shoot Daddy,” McFadden tells the dog. “She’s one of us. She believes in the ‘others’ and even bought one of Daddy’s special hats.”
While McFadden soothes the dog, I take another slow step in his direction and stop when the dog growls at me again.
“Put the spatula down and walk toward me slowly,” I demand.
“Can’t we just talk about this? I’ll give you a signed copy of my book,” he pleads.
Raising the gun higher, so it’s aimed right at his face, I watch him swallow nervously and turn slowly to set the spatula down on the card table next to the grill, filled with buns and a huge cookie sheet of uncooked hamburger meat.
“Just so you know, I don’t have any hard feelings toward you. We can still be friends after this is over,” he states with his back still to me.
I take a deep breath and another cautious step in his direction, ignoring the growling dog by my feet with her teeth bared—her tiny little two-pound-dog teeth. I sort of want to laugh at the fact that this dog thinks she’s some kind of badass guard dog.
When I’m within arm’s reach, McFadden suddenly lets out a yell.
“TINKERDOODLE—ATTACK!”
The dog launches itself at my leg in a blur of activity and clamps down on my ankle. I let out a yelp as McFadden whirls around with the cookie sheet of meat in his hand and throws it in my direction. Raw meat rains down on my head while I try to keep the gun on McFadden and shake the stupid dog loose from my pant leg.