“My office is right here.” He galloped down the hall and opened the door to his office. “Look at this.”

I followed him and stepped into his office. One wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves and the shelves were filled with action figures. Star Trek, professional wrestlers, GI Joe characters, Star Wars, Spawn, about two hundred Simpsons figures.

“Is this an awesome collection, or what?” he asked.

“It’s fun.”

“And I collect comic books, too. Mostly action comics. I have a whole stack of original Spider-Man McFarlanes. Man, I wish I could draw like him.”

I looked around the room. Large old wooden partner’s desk with desk chair, computer with oversize LCD monitor, trash basket filled with squashed Dr Pepper cans, framed poster of Barbarella behind the desk, single chair in front of the desk, dog-eared comics piled high on the chair seat. None of the catalogues and product samples I saw in Bart’s office.

“So,” I said, “what’s your part in the business?”

Clyde giggled. “I don’t have one. Nobody trusts me to do anything. Now, on the surface that might seem a little insulting, but if you examine it more closely you see that I have a good deal. I collect a paycheck for staying out of the way! How good is that?”

“Does it get boring? Do you have to sit here all day?”

“Yeah, I guess sometimes it’s a little boring. But everyone’s nice to me and I get to do all the things I like. I can play with my action figures and read comics and play games on the computer. It isn’t like I’m mentally retarded . . . it’s just that I screw up a lot. The truth is, I’m not real interested in making thingamabobs.”

“What would you like to do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d like to be Spider-Man.”

Too bad Clyde wasn’t older. He’d be perfect for Grandma Mazur.

LULA WAS SOUND asleep with the driver’s seat tipped back when I returned to the car. I jumped in and locked my door and nudged Lula.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re supposed to be on lookout.”

Lula sat up and stretched. “There wasn’t anything to see. And I got sleepy after eating all that chicken. I ate the whole thing. I even ate the skin. I love skin. And you know how all other diets tell you not to eat the skin? Well, guess what? I’m doing the skin diet now, girlfriend.”

“That’s great. Let’s get out of here.”

“Something happen in there to make you in such a rush to take off?”

“Just feeling antsy.”

“Fine by me. Where we going next?”

I didn’t know. I was out of leads. Out of ideas. Out of courage. “Let’s go back to the office.”

LULA AND I saw the black truck simultaneously. It was parked in front of Vinnie’s office. It was a new Dodge Ram. It didn’t have a speck of dust on it. It had bug lights on the cab, oversize tires, and a license plate that was probably made in someone’s basement. Ranger drove a variety of cars. All of them were black. All were new. All were expensive. And all were of dubious origin. The Ram was his favorite.