Getting Rid of Bradley by Jennifer Crusie Page A

briefly about the evil eye. If such a thing was possible, this
    hag could deliver.
    “Hello, Mrs. Dover,” Lucy called out from the back door. “It’s all right. He’s with the police.”
    “I knew this neighborhood was finished when you moved in,” Mrs. Dover shouted back. “Torturing my
    cat. Bringing those vicious dogs in. Coming and going at all hours.”
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    “Lovely day, isn’t it?” Lucy came out onto the porch and looked down at Zack.
    “Torturing her cat?” Zack asked and Lucy shook her head.
    “Phoebe hasn’t been the same since the Porters moved in,” Mrs. Dover said. “I’ve called the humane
    society, but they won’t do anything. Oh, no.”
    “Usually the sun doesn’t come out much in February,” Lucy said brightly to no one in particular. “We’re
    very lucky today.”
    “And now this trash.” She gestured at Zack. “Does your husband know you’re entertaining hoodlums?”
    “Actually, I’m divorced now, Mrs. Dover. And Detective Warren really isn’t a hoodlum. I made the
    same mistake, too, but he’s really very nice.” She looked at Zack. “I think it’s your jaw and the five
    o’clock shadow. I know you can’t do anything about your jaw, but you would look much more
    reassuring if you’d shave. And get a haircut. Really.”
    “Thank you,” Zack said.
    A patrol car pulled up in front.
    “Maybe he’s the police.” Mrs. Dover climbed down her back porch steps while she kept an eye cocked
    on Zack. “Maybe. But I bet he’s on the Most Wanted list Ha! We’ll know soon.” She nodded and
    hobbled down her driveway to the street to meet the uniforms.
    “Great,” Zack said. “This makes the second time today somebody’s called the cops on me.”
    “Well, as I was saying, I think your image needs work. I realize you’re probably undercover—”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    “Forget it.” Zack started for the street. Then he screamed in pain.
    A large dirty yellow cat had leaped on his leg, burying her claws deeply into his calf through his jeans.
    Zack kicked out, and the cat dropped away while Mrs. Dover screeched at him from the street.
    “Meet Phoebe,” Lucy said.
    “Damn!” Zack nursed his shin. “What’s wrong with that animal?”
    “I think she’s psychotic. I hate her because she uses my car for a litter box so I have to keep the
    windows rolled up all the time, even in the summer. And because all three of my dogs are terrified of
    her.”
    “Her, who?” Zack glared at Mrs. Dover’s back as she gestured wildly to the police in the street. “The
    woman or the cat?”
    “Both,” Lucy said. “Do you want some iodine?”
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    “No,” Zack said, as a young patrolman approached him. “I want to shoot that damn cat.”
    “Sir?” the patrolman began. “This lady has a complaint.”
    Zack looked at him closely. “How old are you? Twelve?”
    The young patrolman stiffened. “Sir...”
    Zack got out his badge again. “I’m sorry. I’m having a bad day. I’m investigating an attempt on this
    woman’s life.” He nodded toward Lucy.
    “You are not,” Lucy said. “They shot at you, not me.”
    “Shut up.” Zack looked at the patrolman. “Do you ever get tired of defending the public?”
    “All the time,” the patrolman said. “I’ll just have to call this in, sir...” he began, looking at Zack’s ID, and
    then he, too, screamed.
    “Shoot the cat,” Zack said. “It’s assaulted two officers and resisted arrest. Do it.”
    Mrs. Dover hissed at him, scooped up Phoebe, and disappeared into her house.
    “Is this some kind of a joke?” the patrolman asked, nursing his shin.
    “No. Tragically, no. Go ahead and call that in.” Zack looked up at Lucy as the patrolman made his way
    back to the car. “What does it mean when everyone you see is younger than you are?”
    “It