Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum 20)

“I knew you were here,” Grandma said, opening the front door for me. “We could hear you coming a mile away.”

“I’m going to have to borrow Uncle Sandor’s car until I get mine fixed,” I said. “I can’t take the noise.”

“No problem. It’s in the garage. It’s all filled up with gas and ready to go.”

My Great Uncle Sandor handed his 1953 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster over to my Grandma Mazur when he went into the nursing home. He’s since died, and the monster car now lives at my parents’ house, available for use as a loaner. It gets about three miles to a gallon. It drives like a refrigerator on wheels. And it does nothing for my self-esteem. On the plus side: It’s free and it’s invincible.

My father was in his chair in the living room, watching television. He’s retired from the post office and now drives a cab part-time. He has a few regulars that he drives to the train station every morning and picks up every evening, and the rest of the day he drives the cab to his lodge and plays cards with “the boys.” He used to keep a shotgun in the house for protection, but we had to get rid of it for fear he’d shoot Grandma in a gonzo moment of berserk frustration.

I passed through the dining room on my way to the kitchen and noticed that the table was set for five.

“Who’s coming to dinner?” I asked. “There’s an extra place setting.”

The doorbell chimed and Grandma scurried off to get the door.

“Stephanie,” my mother called. “Come get the shells. They’re ready to go. And there’s antipasto.”

I draped my bag over the back of a kitchen chair and reached for the antipasto platter. “Who’s coming to dinner?”

“No one special. Just someone I ran into today.”

I stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “Who?”

“Randy Berger. And don’t you dare go out the back door.”

“Randy Berger the butcher?”

“He’s not the butcher anymore. He owns the deli now. And he’s still looking for someone to take over the meat counter. It could be a good job for you. You could get a regular paycheck, and no one would shoot at you or drop you off a bridge. And Randy is single. Who knows what could happen? He could turn out to be the one.”

“I found the one. I’m almost engaged to Morelli.”

Problem was I hadn’t just found the one… I’d found the two.

Grandma came into the kitchen with Randy Berger in tow. Berger was a giant. He was 6’ 3” and built like someone who ate four double pork chops in a single sitting. He had thinning sandy blond hair and a face permanently flushed from freezer burn and peach schnapps.

“It’s real nice of you to invite me to dinner,” Randy said to my mother, handing her a large chunk of meat wrapped in white butcher’s paper. “I brought you a little something.”

“My goodness,” my mother said, reading the label. “It’s a tenderloin.”

“I just got it in,” Randy said. “It’s corn-fed, and it’s got real good marbling. I know everybody’s always talking about grass-fed beef, but if you ask me it’s shoe leather. Give me a cow that’s been shoved into a pen with a thousand other cows and forced to eat grain, and I’ll show you a darn good pot roast.”

“I guess you know a lot about meat,” Grandma said to Randy.

“It’s been my life,” Randy said. “Except now that I own the deli I have to expand my horizons.”

My mother put the meat into the fridge, and pushed everyone into the dining room.

“Frank,” she said to my father. “Come to the table. We’re ready to eat. Did you meet Randy?”

My father took his seat and looked over at Randy. “You’re the butcher.”

“I am,” Randy said. “And proud of it. Except now I’m also the store owner.”

“No kidding? I guess you must have done okay as a butcher to be able to buy the store.”

My mother passed the shells to my father. “You see, Stephanie,” she said, “you can make good money as a butcher.”

“I’m willing to pay top dollar to get the right person,” Randy said.