by Amy Korman
“Will you be done fixing this place up by Wednesday?” Bootsie asked Joe. “Because tomorrow’s Gazette is running a page three story about the all-new Striped Awning. I’ve also invited the whole town to a reopening party to unveil your signature cocktail,” she told me. “It’s Wednesday at 5 p.m. I’ll supply the alcohol and Triscuits.”
“Thanks!” I said gratefully.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after a quick stop at the luncheonette where I’d been surprised to see Skipper manning the grill counter, and another detour to pick up Sophie and Gerda, we were back on the Atlantic City Expressway.
While she drove, Bootsie started removing her clothes—at least the outer layer, which was an L.L. Bean tracksuit, which I’d thought was a strange choice for an eighty-one-degree day.
Underneath, she wore a red Pack-N-Ship shirt and a hideous pair of knee-length shorts. The shirt wasn’t much better—a boxy button up with short sleeves and “Leena, Store Manager” inscribed above the jaunty Pack-N-Ship logo.
“I’m guessing there’s a reason you’re wearing a uniform,” I sighed.
“Absolutely—big box stores are all about cheap shipping,” Bootsie told me through mouthfuls of an egg sandwich on fragrant multigrain toast.
“Did you tell Leena you’re going to impersonate her today?” I said.
“I don’t think I mentioned it,” Bootsie said, finishing half her lunch in four bites. “But she had a bunch of uniforms in the storeroom, so I borrowed one yesterday when you were moving Holly’s packages into their own pallet.”
“Leena’s going to think I took it!” I said, embarrassed.
“She probably won’t even notice. Leena isn’t real detail-oriented,” Bootsie observed.
“Yum!” said Sophie, taking a dainty bite of her sandwich.
“Normally, I don’t eat protein and carbs in same meal,” Gerda informed us from the backseat, “but today I cannot resist combination of egg and bread.”
“Now that Skipper’s running the place, the food’s never been better,” Bootsie told her—which was true. The combination of fluffy eggs, arugula, and a drizzle of olive oil and sea salt on multigrain toast was a huge leap up from the old breakfast specials.
“Skipper’s instituted Breakfast All Day à la McDonald’s, and the town response has been huge! We’re doing a front-page story on it this week,” Bootsie said. “Anyway, I ran into the Colketts there when I was getting coffee this morning, and got some info about that lady Nonna Claudia. They told me she hates Gianni! She’s got some three-year contract with him, though, so she has to keep working for him, and he pays her out the wazoo.”
As Bootsie headed east, she relayed a sad tale spun by the Colketts about how Nonna Claudia had been flown out the month before to work with the Gianni’s California staff on pasta, and like the Colketts, she had been living in a swanky hotel suite paid for by the Food Network. But after a week, Nonna had informed Gianni she didn’t like L.A.
“She finally convinced Gianni to send her back here from Beverly Hills to finish out the last months of her pasta contract. She’s apparently saving money to go back and buy a farmhouse in Sicily. Or something,” Bootsie said vaguely.
“Does the luncheonette gig mean Skipper is done with the club forever, even when Gianni goes back to California?” I asked, concerned. There was no way that the tiny diner could ever match Skipper’s salary at the country club.
“Right now, the club and Gianni aren’t good topics to bring up with Skipper,” said Bootsie. “But I think he’s looking at this as a temporary job. Anyway, I need you to find out who handles operations for Mega Wine Mart,” she told me, handing me her iPhone.
After some quick Googling, I gave her the name—Chad Smith.
“We could kidnap him and beat the crap out of him,” suggested Gerda. “Then he tell you whatever you need to know.”
“That’s a good Plan B,” said Bootsie. “Let’s back-burner that, and hope Chad likes tall blondes in uniform!”
MEGA WINE MART’S corporate headquarters were in Atlantic City, in a new, glass-fronted office building several blocks in from the ocean and the casinos.
The logo included a giant goblet of red wine, a bunch of neon grapes, and the company names in large block letters, and it appeared that the whole three-story building was devoted to the dissemination of tasty discount intoxicants.
“Business must be good,” I noted, reluctantly following Bootsie inside the well air-conditioned lobby, where a map was dotted with goblets that marked the location of each Mega Wine Mart from California to Florida.
I’d thought about staying in the car with Sophie, who had a call scheduled with her lawyers, but finally decided to go inside with Bootsie and Gerda. They just didn’t seem like a safe pair.
If Bootsie’s postal persona didn’t work out, I could tell the Mega Wine Mart people Bootsie had recently gone off her meds against the advice of a team of medical experts, and drag her out as quickly as possible.
“I wonder if it’s too late to get a piece of the franchise in Bryn Mawr,” mused Bootsie, taking note of another wall in the lobby that listed dozens of types of wine, champagne, and Prosecco carried by the chain. “This store’s gonna kill in our town.”
“We’re here to stop the franchise, remember?” I whispered to her.
“Oh, right. Well, if they go ahead with it, I mean,” she said, unperturbed, and walked up to the receptionist, clipboard in hand and toothy grin in place.
“Hi!” she told a bored-looking girl behind a huge beige desk. “I’m Leena McElvoy, and I’m here to see Chad Smith.”
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the girl, who didn’t look all that excited about her job, or about Bootsie’s annoyingly upbeat persona.
“Absolutely,” said Bootsie. “We’re from Pack-N-Ship Bulk Transport, South Jersey Regional Division, and I e-mailed him last week.”
“Your shirt says ‘Store Manager,’ ” pointed out the receptionist. “How come it says ‘Store Manager’ if you’re from Regional?”
“I got promoted,” said Bootsie. “And here’s some free advice: Maybe if you put a smile on that puss, you’d get a better job, too.”
The receptionist, who was about 23 years old with a blond ponytail, stared Bootsie down for a long minute.
“My job might suck, but at least I’m not wearing a hideous red Pack-N-Ship shirt and unflattering Bermuda shorts,” the blonde said. “Bam!” she added, then dialed Chad, who appeared a moment later, a pleasant if confused smile on his face. He was somewhere in his late thirties, without much of a tan for a guy who lived at the Jersey shore, and was decked out in a Caesar’s polo shirt and black pants.
“Chad! Hi!” said Bootsie, handing him one of Skipper’s sandwiches. “Remember, I e-mailed about bringing you some lunch and talking our great new rates for high-volume ground shipping!”
“Uh, gosh, I’m not sure,” said the guy. “But come on back to my office, I guess.”
“Sorry I didn’t bring you anything,” Bootsie told the receptionist with a fake smile. “You probably don’t like avocado and Manchego with tarragon vinaigrette on a baguette anyway.”
“Uh-huh,” said the girl. “Maybe if you cut down on the baguettes, you’d look better in those shorts.”
“Soooo, bulk shipping, great.” Chad nodded, sitting at a new-looking desk in an office with an accent wall the color of cabernet and a view of the parking lot, where I could see Sophie getting worked up on her phone call. Chad unwrapped the sandwich, and dug in.
“You like to hang out at Caesar’s?” Bootsie asked.
“I deal Texas Hold ’Em in the VIP Poker Lounge three nights a week,” he said through a mouthful of cheese and veggies. “Dealing poker’s how I bought my condo and my Porsche. I mean, I love wine and this is a cool day job, but Caesar’s is where
I really make bank.”
“I love Caesar’s!” Bootsie told him, while I wondered if this was true. The Delaney/McElvoy clan does have a gambling streak, and Bootsie and her mom make occasional road trips to the casinos, so I guess they might frequent the place.
Chad looked flattered, and I noticed him checking out Bootsie’s tanned tennis-honed legs. It’s funny with Bootsie—she doesn’t get the constant ogling that Holly and Sophie receive, but there’s a certain type of guy that loves Bootsie’s tomboy sporty quality. As luck would have it, Chad appeared to like what he saw.
“Anyway, Chad, we understand you guys are opening a new store outside Philly, and that falls in my region.”
“That’s true, but we have a great deal with FedEx Ground,” Chad told her. “I’d love to help you out, but I don’t see you being able to undercut FedEx. And Corporate doesn’t run daily operations at the franchises. You’d need to talk to the individual store’s owners.”
“I know!” said Bootsie. “And I was all set to do that, until this one”—here, she poked an elbow in my direction—“lost the paperwork we had for the new store! She left it in a cab after getting super-drunk at the Borgata last week.”
I assumed an expression of boozy regret, while Chad looked confused again and kept working his way through his sandwich.
“Who’s this?” asked a tough-looking lady in a dark suit, poking her head and staring suspiciously at me, Bootsie, and Gerda. “Are you from Pack-N-Ship?” she said, eyeing Bootsie’s shirt logo. “Because Chad isn’t authorized to make any changes in shipping.”
“No problem!” said Bootsie, jumping up and thankfully looking ready to go. “We just added some new bulk shipping rates I wanted to make you aware of. Well, we gotta go talk to the purchasing agent at Harrah’s.”
“You do that,” said the woman, giving Bootsie a nasty look. “Meeting in two minutes, Chad, in the boardroom.” She took off down the hall.
Bootsie then went spectacularly off-script. “Chad, I’m gonna tell you the truth. Shipping isn’t what we’re after here. We’re actually from Bryn Mawr, and want the Wine Mart franchise for ourselves!” she whispered.
“Apparently some guy named Barry Tutto is behind the new location, and we need to get hold of him. If you can just give us a copy of the paperwork for the franchise outside Philly, that would be awesome,” she finished. “We want to undercut Tutto and open the store in Bryn Mawr ourselves. And of course we’d want you to come to the opening, and we’ll host you for a blowout dinner afterward!”
Chad followed us out. “I can’t give you the file here,” he whispered once we were out of earshot of the sour-faced receptionist. “I mean, I’d love to see you in on the franchise, but I’m gonna need to do the handoff later during my shift at Caesar’s and I get a dinner break around seven-forty-five. Here’s my number. Text me when you get there!”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Sophie led us into a BCBG store at the Atlantic City outlet mall.
“You can’t go to a casino in a tracksuit or shorts,” she told Bootsie and Gerda, which, based on my limited knowledge of casinos, isn’t strictly true.
“Kristin is barely squeaking by with that sundress,” Sophie added. “No offense, but I think I saw that one on the clearance rack at Target last week when I was buying a twelve-pack of toilet paper!”
“You did,” I told her. “That’s where I got it.”
“Let me grab a few things for you two to try on,” Sophie told Bootsie, who shrugged, and Gerda, who looked annoyed.
“These dresses not for me,” Gerda told her, casting a doubtful eye at the low-cut outfits all around us. “I don’t do sexy.”
“You’d look super cute in a jumpsuit!” shrieked Sophie, heading for a rack of zip-up garments.
“I don’t do cute,” said Gerda.
Meanwhile, I was wondering about Barclay. He was supposedly in Atlantic City, wasn’t he? What if he was at Caesar’s for dinner or something when we went to meet Chad? It’s not like Bootsie and Gerda, who are both six feet tall, are inconspicuous. And while I’ve never actually met Barclay, since he was unconscious the first time I encountered him, I’m petrified of him.
“Gerda!” I hissed as she shook her head no at every outfit Sophie took off the racks. “What if we run into Barclay? Won’t he be mad if you’re not, like, home mowing his lawn or something?”
“I install Find My Friends app on his phone a couple months ago,” Gerda said, with evident satisfaction. “I been checking on him all week. He never leave the Borgata, which isn’t good ’cause they got a lot of great places to eat there, and Barclay can’t resist anything by Wolfgang Puck.”
After some arguing and negotiating, Bootsie decided she was going all-in, and grabbed the brightest, slinkiest numbers she could find. Forty seconds later, she popped out of the dressing room in an orange bandage dress and strappy heels.
“You look awesome in that!” said a girl with incredibly long black hair to Bootsie. The girl had just emerged from another curtained-off cubicle in a strapless dress made from scuba material.
Bootsie did look downright fantastic, since all that tennis has left her with seriously toned thighs—picture the fat-free legs of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team, and you get the idea.
“Thanks!” said Bootsie, admiring herself in a full-length mirror. “It’s a family trait. All the women in the Delaney family have a great ass.”
“Where are you girls hanging out tonight?” the girl asked Bootsie and Sophie, encompassing our whole group in the question, including Gerda, who was still behind a closed curtain with her jumpsuits. “I see you work at Pack-N-Ship from that uniform you had on. You must really need a drink bad if you work there!”
“You know it,” Bootsie told her, yanking on the hem of her dress. “Especially because this one”—here, she pointed at me—“works there, too, and she’s, like, weeks behind on sorting packages!”
“You should come with me and my friends to Savage Men After Dark! We got a VIP booth for my friend’s birthday for the seven o’clock show, and if you kick in thirty dollars each, you’ll get a free drink and a guaranteed table visit from the dancers!”
“What’s Savage Men After Dark?” I asked, mental alarm bells going off, but Bootsie and Sophie were already peeling twenties out of their wallets.
The girl, who told us her name was Mindy, explained she’d gotten ten half-price tickets from a friend at Caesar’s, and it was going to be super-fun. She handed over the tickets and drink vouchers as Gerda grimly emerged from her curtained cubicle in a black sleeveless jumpsuit, and balked at changing her sneakers for the leopard pumps that Sophie had selected for her.
“Sneakers are okay for casinos,” Gerda said, as we gazed down at the tickets from Mindy, which were emblazoned with black and white photos that confirmed my worst fears. Savage Men was just what it sounded like: shirtless guys in tear-away tracksuits and trench coats. “Come on, Gerda!” shrieked Sophie. “The jumpsuit and heels are on me.”
TWO HOURS LATER, Bootsie, Sophie, Mindy, and her friends were on their third drink while I sipped a single glass of wine, waiting desperately for Chad the poker dealer’s text on Bootsie’s phone, which I’d stuck right in front of me on the table. Gerda was only drinking seltzer, but seemed to be enjoying the spectacle before us.
Bootsie’s attention issues had kicked in big-time thanks to the flashing strobe lights and muscled-up guys on stage, so I kept one eye on the screen and the other on the muscles and spray tans. Finally, a text popped up at seven-forty-five.
“Chad says he’ll be in the Toga Bar in five minutes,” I told Bootsie, who thankfully threw her last handful of dollar bills at a guy onstage who’d just torn off his pants.
“We gotta go,” she told Mindy, and exchanged group hugs with the other three girls at the table, along with phone numbers and pro
mises to get together again soon.
At the Toga Bar, Chad was in a booth with a mojito in hand.
“This never happened!” he told us as he handed over the file, with a tipsy edge in his voice that had me worried about his ability to deal out six more hours of Texas Hold ’Em. Was he permitted to drink at work?
“By the way, you look great in that dress!” he added to Bootsie, who was buying Chad another cocktail when Sophie gave a happy little scream.
“Lobster Phil!” shrieked Sophie. “Look, he’s sitting right there waving to us. It’s another sign!”
Chapter 16
PHIL WAS ENJOYING his namesake dish, grilled and topped with butter and crabmeat, at a swanky eatery just off the gaming floor, and he gallantly rose and invited us all to sit down.
“I go to ladies’ room,” said Gerda, heading off into the crowded lobby.
“You girls hungry?” he asked. “I’ll order a few more lobsters.”
Bootsie was about to enthusiastically agree when my phone rang.
“How many dogs are there supposed to be at your house?” Joe said dispiritedly. “I opened the door, and it was like one hundred dogs busted free. They’re all over your yard, barking and running.”
“There are four!” I told him. “Four dogs, plus Waffles, which is five! You didn’t leave Waffles at the store, did you?”
“No, I brought him back to your house,” Joe told me, sounding aggrieved. “He’s here somewhere. By the way, he drooled all over my custom Valcona leather interior, and I’m not sure my Audi will ever be the same again.”
“We need to go, but thanks for offering to buy us dinner,” I told Phil.
“Is that my Honey Bunny?” said Sophie, forgetting she was mad at Joe.
“Okay,” I heard Joe mumble. “I count five dogs. They’re all back in the house now. I’m throwing down some kibble and running out the door.” I hung up.
“Too bad you’re leaving,” said Phil. “I just got done a bunch of meetings over at the Borgata. What brings you ladies to A.C., anyway?”