We got close enough to see when Rockin’ Armpits and Victor Waggle were about to take the stage. Hal changed direction and moved us left so we’d be in a good position when they finished playing and headed for the exit.
Hal watched the band and the crowd in full-on Rangeman protective mode. Lula took selfies, posted them for her Facebook friends, and looked like she knew what the band was playing. I focused on Victor Waggle and did shallow breathing, hoping to minimize the contact high.
At eleven-thirty I saw Victor look to the side of the stage and nod to someone. Hal saw it too and began to move us toward the side exit. Ten minutes later, the band played their last song, waved at the audience, and bounded off the stage. We made an effort to follow them but were stopped at the door.
Lula adjusted the girls and leaned forward. “Hold on here,” she said to the doorman. “We’re special friends of all them Armpits. We have a personal relationship. You can ask anybody, except for the little guy with the green hair. We don’t know him personal. Furthermore, I’ve had a request from certain members of the band to pay a visit and work my magic. They gonna be unhappy if you don’t let Lula through to work magic.”
“Okay, you can go in,” the doorman said. “But only you.”
“No way,” Lula said. “I don’t go nowhere without my security detail. When you got talents like I got you need people around who know CPR and shit.”
Most of Lula’s boobs had jiggled out by now with only her massive nipples caught inside the bustier. The doorman was having a hard time looking past the trapped nipple to the security detail.
“Whatever,” he said. “Maybe you want to save some of that magic for me.”
“When I’m done with you, your dick will never be the same,” Lula said. “I’ll ruin you.”
We all hurried through the door and looked around for Victor Waggle. Lighting was minimal, supplied mostly by Maglites and cellphone flashlights. There were thirty to forty people milling around in the small outdoor space. Some looked like the band about to go onstage next. Some looked like groupies and roadies. Some looked like event security. I spotted Russel Frick off to one side, packing his drum set into a cart.
“Hey,” I said, “remember me?”
“Bounty hunter.”
“Yeah. Is Victor here somewhere?”
“He went up front to find a meal ticket.”
“How do I get up front from here?”
Frick pointed to the narrow alley between the buildings. “Follow the yellow brick road.”
I grabbed Hal and Lula, and we ran down the alley to Stark. People were standing around talking, smoking, checking out street vendors. Victor Waggle was with several women in front of a food truck that was selling hot dogs. It looked like he was autographing photos.
We did a flanking maneuver and sneaked up behind him. I had my cuffs ready and was about to clap one on his wrist when one of the women yelled, “PIG!”
Victor whirled around, saw the cuff, and jumped away. One of the women kicked me in the knee, and two others pulled out guns.
“That’s rude,” Lula said to the woman who kicked me. “What’s the matter with you? You don’t kick sisters for no cause.”
“I got lots of cause,” the woman said. “I’m loaded with cause.” And she kicked Lula.
Lula swung her purse and hit the woman square in the face, knocking her off her feet.
Someone squeezed off a couple shots that took out a piece of Lula’s magenta hair before they embedded themselves in the hot dog truck. Everyone either hit the ground or ran for cover.
“I’ve been shot!” Lula screamed. “Lordy, someone help me. I’ve been shot.”
“She just got you in the hair,” I said.
Hal had the shooter by the back of her shirt. He was holding her at arm’s length with her feet not touching the ground. He had her gun in his other hand.
“What do you want me to do with her?” he asked.
“Put her down. We lost Waggle. He ran when she started shooting.”
Hal looked around. “It’s going to be hard to find him now.”
“We can try again tomorrow,” I said.
“Not me,” Lula said. “I’m not coming back here. These people have no respect. I got shoved and kicked and shot at. And I got my hair ruined.” She felt around where her hair had been shot off. “It’s not like hair grows on trees,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS FRIDAY morning. The sun was shining. My Rangeman escort was on my bumper. I was on my way to the bonds office.
I was going more out of habit than necessity. Realistically speaking, I only had one open file, and chances of making that capture this morning were close to zero—unless Victor Waggle staggered into the road in a drug-induced stupor and I accidentally ran over him.
Lula was eating the Boston Kreme donut when I walked in.
“I never expected to get the good donut today,” Lula said to me. “It took me forever to figure out what to do with my hair. I couldn’t get a salon appointment until tomorrow. Why are you late?”
“I didn’t want to start my day.”
“I hear you,” Lula said. “I’m getting the feeling our life is going south. We’re not having a lot of luck being bounty hunters, and the deli is turning into the kitchen from hell. I’m not even sure about my career as a sandwich maker anymore. I feel like I’m underappreciated by some of the customers.”
“Maybe because they never get what they order.”
“Yeah, but I’m giving them a unique culinary experience. It’s called haute cuisine. I read about it in a magazine while I was waiting to get my nails done. I’m all about haute cuisine and haute couture. I bet I could haute couture the hell out of any-one in Trenton.”
No doubt. At the moment, she was wearing a blond Farrah Fawcett wig, a fire-engine-red sequined tank top, a short spandex purple skirt that had metallic silver threads running through it, and five-inch silver platform heels.
“What’s the word on Vinnie?” I asked Connie.
“He’s supposed to go home today.”
“Is he talking? Did he say what happened to him?”
“He’s talking, but I don’t think he can remember anything about his abduction. At least that’s what he told Lucille. Morelli might know more.”
I called Morelli and asked him about Vinnie.
“He seems to be healthy,” Morelli said. “No signs of torture or abuse. Turns out the number on his forehead wasn’t tattooed. It was put on with a marker pen. The last thing he remembers is getting out of his car in the parking area behind the agency. Toxicology reports haven’t come back yet, but I’m sure they’re going to find some sort of amnesiac drug in his system. He had needle tracks on his arm.”
“And his shoe?”
“Clean, but, again, all the lab work isn’t back.”
“I wish you would solve this, because the deli job is getting old.”
“I hate to pass this on to you, but we’ve got zip. We’re counting on you to figure it out.”
“Oh boy.”
“I have to get back to my blood and guts job,” Morelli said. “I’ll see you tonight. We’re still on for dinner at your parents’ house, right?”
“Crap, I completely forgot. I have to work at the deli.”
“I thought this was a birthday party for your sister.”
“Double crap!”
I disconnected and looked at Lula. “I need to get a birthday present for Valerie.”
“You forgot your sister’s birthday, didn’t you?” Lula said. “That’s terrible. Shame on you.”
“I have other stuff on my mind.” Like staying alive.
“What are you going to get her?” Lula asked.
“I don’t know. I hate the whole present thing. I never know what to get anyone.”
“I
give people gift cards,” Lula said. “You could buy them in the supermarket. They’re easy. There’s gift cards for everything from Starbucks to Target and in between. I like them on account of the message they send. I figure it puts people on notice. A gift card says I feel obligated to get you something, but I don’t care enough to put any effort into finding just the right gift. Gives people some idea of their place in your life, you see what I’m saying?”
“You gave me a gift card for Christmas,” I said to Lula.
“Yeah,” Lula said, “but I put some thought into which one to get you. I gave you a card for that big liquor store on Liberty Street.”
“I’m heading for the deli,” I said. “The kitchen needs cleaning.”
“We need one of them cleaning services,” Lula said. “You can’t expect a sandwich artist like me to be scrubbing floors. I need to focus my energy in the direction of ham and cheese.”
I wanted to focus my energy in the direction of turning the deli into a pile of smoldering cinders, but that wasn’t going to help me find Wayne Kulicki.
“A cleaning service is a great idea,” I said. “You’re in charge of finding one. In the meantime, someone needs to scrape the grease off the grill and scoop up the dead roaches before we start serving lunch.”
* * *
■ ■ ■
It was nine-thirty when we got to the deli. Stretch was already there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the front door. He stood when he saw me.
“Did I put sauerkraut on a number twenty-two?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “And ketchup. You put ketchup on everything, including lemon meringue pie.”
“I thought it needed a splash of color.”
“You were in My Little Pony Land.”
“It was my happy place,” Stretch said.
“It wasn’t my happy place,” Lula said. “You were out there, whackadoodle. I take my sandwiches seriously, and I don’t want some doper coming around adding extra condiments.”
Raymond ambled down the street and nodded in greeting. “I’m hoping that when we open the door, the deli will be magically cleaned,” he said. “I have it on very good authority that sometimes the tooth fairy has a light day and does these things.”
“I’m hoping that’s your sense of humor and not coming from something extra you put in your wake-up weed,” Lula said.
Raymond did more head bobbing. “I have a very excellent sense of humor.”
Hal drove up, my night-shift Rangeman guy drove off, and Hal parked in his spot behind my Nova. I plugged my key into the deli’s front door, reached in and switched the light on, and we all waited outside for a moment while the roaches scurried out of sight.
* * *
■ ■ ■
The laundry pickup and delivery came at ten-thirty. The butcher truck came ten minutes later, and Central GP honked their horn in the back lot a little after eleven.
“Sorry I’m late,” Frankie said. “Fridays are always nuts. Everyone ordering for the weekend. Except the deli. You get commuter trade here. Weekends not so much.”
“I’m sure we’re one of your smaller accounts,” I said. “I’m surprised that you stop in every day. The other suppliers come twice a week.”
“You’re in between Munchers Italian and the Corner Grille. They get fresh bread daily, so it’s no biggie for me to stop here.”
Plus, he distributes drugs, I thought. Stretch and Raymond were good customers.
“I hear you’ve got a new menu,” Frankie said. “How’s it doing?”
“It’s not exactly a new menu,” I said. “It’s mostly like the sandwich maker is overly creative.”
“Who’s making these sandwiches? Is it the big guy?”
“Hal? No, Hal is working the phone and keeping an eye on things.”
“You mean, like, he’s the manager now?”
“He’s more like security.”
“Yeah, you got a problem. It’s gotta be scary to work here and wonder who’s gonna be the next one to disappear and lose a shoe. I’m surprised this place is still in business.”
“You know about that?”
“Everyone knows about that,” Frankie said.
I signed the receipt for the day’s delivery of rolls, paper towels, avocados, mayo, and a quart-size plastic bag labeled OREGANO.
“Who gets the oregano?” I asked Frankie.
“Raymond. It’s for the French fries.”
* * *
■ ■ ■
A news crew from one of the local television stations walked through the front door at one o’clock and began filming. They panned around the dining area and made their way back to the kitchen.
Raymond grabbed his bag of oregano and ducked down. “I must go to the little boys’ room,” he said. “Do not let my fry station go out of control.”
Stretch and Dalia went about business as usual.
Lula ripped her apron off and adjusted the girls. “I bet they heard about my sandwiches,” Lula said. “This could be the start of a big television career for me. I even got a name for my show. I’m gonna call it Lula’s Buns on account of my best sandwiches are made on those smushy hamburger buns we get from the truck.”
I wasn’t nearly so excited about the television crew. My mind was racing down black roads of panic. I didn’t want to announce to the world that I was the manager of the deli. I didn’t want publicity that might bring in more customers when we could barely service our regulars. Plus, we had giant roaches, mutant rats, half the stuff in the fridge expired months ago, and there was green fuzzy stuff growing in the pantry. Raymond was probably flushing his oregano down the toilet, but God knows what everyone had in their lockers.
The television crew consisted of a cameraman, a reporter in a wrinkled suit, and a guy who said he was the producer. The producer was wearing Jesus sandals and looked like he slept in a cardboard box under the bridge.
The reporter went directly to Lula. “How does it feel to be an Internet sensation?” he asked her.
Lula leaned forward. “Say what?”
“Yesterday you had twenty thousand likes on your YouTube video.”
“I didn’t post no video,” Lula said.
“I saw it,” Dalia said. “It was posted by a customer. It was titled ‘S&M Sandwich Bitch,’ and it was you in your black leathers, making sandwiches and cussing out Stretch.”
“He was ruining my sandwiches,” Lula said. “He was putting ketchup on everything. I take my sandwiches seriously.”
“Who are you today?” the reporter asked Lula. “Are you Doris Day?”
“I could see you don’t know much about Doris Day,” Lula said. “If I was Doris Day I’d have on a pillbox hat and I’d be wearing a fluffy pink sweater. And anyways I’m always Lula. I don’t do that other people shit.” Lula looked at the camera guy. “Can I say ‘shit’ on television?”
“No,” he said. “We’ll have to bleep that out.”
“That’s too bad,” Lula said. “I emoted it with real conviction. It could have been a good sound bite.”
The reporter looked at the sandwich Lula was making. “What is this?” he asked.
“It’s a chicken parm,” Lula said.
“It doesn’t look like a chicken parm.”
“That’s because without any extra charge I’m giving this person a chicken parm supreme à la Lula. I added bacon and brown gravy on account of everything is better with bacon and gravy.”
The cameraman zoomed in on the supreme à la Lula.
“Order up,” Stretch yelled. “Where’s my chicken parm? Where are my fries?”
“There aren’t any fries,” I said. “Raymond is in the little boys’ room. It might have something to do with the oregano.”
“I need a number twenty-three and a number four,” Dalia said.
Time stood still for a full minute while everyone stared in shocked horror.
“Holy bleep,” Lula said.
Stretch pulled the knife out of the guy’s foot and blood spurted everywhere. The cameraman went in for a close-up, and Hal fainted. Crash!
“I need that chicken parm,” Dalia said, “and table three wants apple pie.”
“Chicken parm’s up,” Stretch said. “It’s the plate that looks like diarrhea on bacon.”
I wrapped a towel around the producer’s foot, and Lula bound it up with plastic wrap.
“What’s happening?” one of the customers asked. “What’s going on?”
“We got a issue here,” Lula told him. “Any of you people a podiatrist?”
No one was a podiatrist, so we scooped the producer up and helped him hobble out to the news van.
“Sorry about this,” I said to the reporter. “I hope it won’t reflect badly on the deli.”
“Lady, with the reputation this deli is getting, a stabbing can only enhance it,” the reporter said.
Hal was sitting in a booth when we got back inside, but he wasn’t looking great. Lula gave him a number three with extra gravy and a glass of orange juice. Dalia took a mop to the blood on the kitchen floor. Stretch washed his chef’s knife and poured bleach over it. We comped the checks for all the customers, and got Raymond out of the bathroom.
“Now we’re all back to normal,” Lula said. “I might take the time to get my nails done before the dinner rush, since I’m changing out my hair tomorrow. I’m liking this blond wig. And I might want to stay blond for a while so people can recognize me after I’ve been on television. I’m thinking I’ll go blond and maybe I want some champagne nail varnish.”
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