I crept in and looked around. No stacks of money sitting out on the kitchen counter, dining table, end table. And still no sign of alligator, although the apartment smelled gamey. I walked farther into the apartment and there he was . . . over six feet of alligator behind the couch that sat in the middle of the room. His eyes were open, and he was looking at me.

“G-g-g-gator,” I whispered to Lula.

“I see him,” Lula said. “Where you want to go first? You want me to get him to the side of the room so you can look in the bedroom?”

“Yeah, that would be good.”

“Fetch,” Lula said. And she threw a piece of chicken across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, leaving a big grease splotch on the wall.

Mr. Jingles swiveled his head toward the chicken but didn’t move.

“What the heck kind of gator is this?” Lula said. “This here’s Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken. You don’t let Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken hit the floor and lay there. This here’s extra crispy.”

“Throw one closer.”

She threw a piece right at him. It hit him in the head and bounced off. Snap, he ate it.

“Did you see that?” Lula said. “He didn’t even taste that chicken. What’s with that?”

“Drop one a couple feet over.”

“You bet,” Lula said. “Here you go, big guy. Here’s a wing.”

The gator moved his body in slow motion, making a right turn, and then he lunged and snap. Good-bye, wing.

“Whoa,” Lula said. “I don’t like the way he can do that lunge thing. That’s like the death lunge.”

She threw a leg close to the wall, and Mr. Jingles scrabbled after it, moving faster, catching on to the game.

“Hurry up and go around the other side of the couch,” Lula said to me. “Good thing we got two buckets of chicken. Mr. Jingles isn’t exactly a dainty eater.”

I ran around the couch, keeping my eyes on Mr. Jingles. I scooted into the bedroom and shut the door. No stacks of money out in the open here, either. I went through the dresser, the closet, looked under the bed. Nothing. I’ve seen drug money collected, and it’s almost always in a backpack or a gym bag. I looked in the bathroom. Very bare-bones. No drug money. I carefully opened the door and looked out. Mr. Jingles was stalking Lula around the couch. Lula was throwing chicken everywhere, and Mr. Jingles would snap it up and come back at Lula.

“I’m running outta chicken,” Lula yelled. “What the heck am I supposed to do when I run outta chicken?”

“How much chicken do you have left?”

“Four pieces.”

“Try to get him back to the other side of the room so I can get out of the bedroom.”

“Okay, but hurry up. I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at me.”

Lula threw a thigh across the room. Mr. Jingles gave the chunk of chicken a cursory glance and turned his attention back to Lula.