Mister Louise looked at her gratefully and started to his feet. The bulldog raised up and growled a warning; Mister Louise slumped back into his seat.

Mammy Louise winked her off eye at the detectives. “Mister Louise ain’t so pokey tonight,” she explained. “He just want to set here and keep me company.”

“So we noticed,” Coffin Ed said.

Mister Louise stared longingly at the long-barreled, nickel-plated. 38 caliber revolvers sticking from the two detectives’ shoulder holsters.

They heard the front door to the store open and bang shut. Feet stamped. A whisky-thick voice called, “Hey, Mammy Louise, come out here and give me a pot of them frozen chitterlings.”

She waddled through the curtained doorway leading to the store. They heard her opening a five-gallon milk can and shuffling about, and the customer protesting, “I don’t wants them loose chitterlings; I wants some frozen chitterlings,” and her sharp reply, “If you wants to eat ’em frozen just take ’em outside and freeze ’em; hit’s cold enough.”

Grave Digger said, “Mammy Louise can’t stand this Northern climate.”

“She got enough fat to keep her warm at the North Pole,” Coffin Ed replied.

“The trouble is, her fat gets cold.”

Mister Louise begged in a piteous voice, “One of you gentlemens shoot him for me, won’t you.” He glanced toward the curtained doorway and added, “I’ll pay you.”

“It wouldn’t kill him,” Coffin Ed replied solemnly.

“Bullets would just bounce off his head,” Grave Digger supplemented.

Mammy Louise came back and looked at her husband suspiciously. Then she said to the detectives, “Your car is talking.”