Half an hour later she was ready to go, wearing her jeans and ski jacket and Doc Martens.

I spotted Morelli’s car a block down from Stiva’s on Hamilton. Didn’t look like Morelli was in the car. Probably Morelli was with Roche, swapping war stories. I parked behind Morelli, being careful not to creep too close and knock out his lights, again. I could see the front and side door to the funeral home, and the front door to Roche’s building.

“I know all about how to do this stakeout stuff,” Grandma said. “They had some private eyes on television the other night, and they didn’t leave out a thing.” She stuck her head into the canvas tote bag she’d hauled along. “I got everything we need in here. I got magazines to pass the time. I got sandwiches and sodas. I even got a bottle.”

“What kind of bottle?”

“Used to have olives in it.” She showed me the bottle. “It’s so we can pee on the job. All the private eyes said they did this.”

“I can’t pee in that bottle. Only men can pee in bottles.”

“Darn,” Grandma said. “Why didn’t I think of that? I went and threw away all the olives, too.”

We read the magazine and tore out a few recipes. We ate the sandwiches and drank the sodas.

After drinking the sodas we both needed to go to the bathroom, so we went back to my parent’ house for a potty break. We returned to Hamilton, slid into the same parking place behind Morelli, and continued to wait.

“You’re right,” Grandma said after an hour. “This is boring.”

We played hangman and counted cars and verbally trashed Joyce Barnhardt. We’d just started twenty questions when I glanced out the window at oncoming traffic and recognized Kenny Mancuso. He was driving a two-tone Chevy Suburban that looked to be as big as a bus. We exchanged surprised stares for the longest heartbeat in history.

“Shit!” I shouted, fumbling with the ignition key, swiveling in my seat to keep him in sight.

“Get this car moving,” Grandma yelled. “Don’t let that son of a skunk get away!”

I wrenched the gearshift into drive and was about to pull out when I realized Kenny had U-turned at the intersection and was closing ground between us. There were no cars parked behind me. I saw the Suburban swerve to the curb and told Grandma to brace herself.

The Suburban crashed into the back of the Buick, bouncing us forward into Morelli’s car, which crashed into the car in front of him. Kenny backed the Suburban up, stepped on the gas, and rammed us again.

“Well, that takes it,” Grandma said. “I’m too old for this kind of bouncing around. I got delicate bones at my age.” She pulled a .45 long-barrel out of her tote bag, wrenched her door open, and scrambled out onto the sidewalk. “Guess this will show you something,” she said, aiming the gun at the Suburban. She pulled the trigger, fire flashed from the barrel, and the kick knocked her on her ass.