Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“You can’t quit,” Lula said. “You’ve only just got the job. How do you know you don’t like it? And we’ve never even had any of our free lunches. I already memorized the menu. I’m gonna have a number twelve and a number sixteen and a number twenty-two today.”

“Three sandwiches?”

“Number twenty-two is a dessert.”

I gave up a sigh, returned to my Nova, and headed for the deli. I would quit after lunch.

“I’m always excited about new beginnings,” Lula said. “This could turn into something big for us. I got a good feeling about this.”

“I have a horrible feeling about this. What about the disappearing managers?”

“It could be a big hoax. Like a joke. Or fake news. There’s a lot of that fake news going around these days. Heck, we could be in the middle of a reality show. It’s not like they found mutilated dead bodies. They just found a shoe, so how bad could it be?”

I cruised past the deli, looking for a parking place. There weren’t any open spaces, so I drove down the one-lane alley that intersected the block and found parking next to the deli’s small dumpster. Lula and I entered through the back door and tiptoed through the kitchen.

Raymond was working the fry station and griddle. Stretch was assembling sandwiches and plating. A twentysomething woman with a blond ponytail and a lot of tattoos was waiting tables. She was wearing jeans and a tank top and looked like she could kick my ass.

“Howdy,” Lula said to her. “I’m Lula, the new assistant manager, and this is Stephanie Plum, standing next to me. She’s the new manager.”

“Dalia Koharchek,” the woman said, extending her hand to me, looking down at my feet. “Congratulations, you’ve still got two shoes.”

“About those managers . . . ” I said.

“Number seven up,” Stretch said.

Dalia grabbed two plates off the service counter and whisked them away to a booth.

“I want my lunch now,” Lula said to Stretch. “A number twelve with extra bacon and a sixteen.”

“Yeah, and I want a BJ,” he said. “You know what our chances of getting any of those anytime soon are?”

“You should be more careful,” Lula said. “That might be considered a sexually improper response.”

Stretch sliced a hoagie roll and threw some shredded lettuce in it. “Bite me.”

I grabbed Lula by the arm and dragged her out of the kitchen.

“He’s lucky he said that to me on account of those off-color remarks don’t bother me,” Lula said. “I even kind of like them, but there’s less-fun people who would report him to the PC police, and he could be in big trouble.”

“Hey, Cookie Puss,” Stretch yelled. “I got shorted by my purveyor. You’re gonna need to do a market run.”

“My name is Stephanie,” I said. “Stephanie.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Stretch said. “We got an account at the market two blocks down. I need six dozen eggs and four loaves of thick-cut white bread.”

“I’ll keep an eye open here,” Lula said to me. “Since you’re going shopping anyway, I’d appreci

ate it if you could pick up a Star magazine.”

I walked the two blocks, bought my eggs, bread, and Star magazine, and walked back. Lula was standing on the sidewalk in front of the deli, and she was waving at me.

“I need a Xanax,” Lula said. “I’m having hallucinations. I just saw a man disappear in a puff of smoke. He wasn’t any ordinary man, either. He was like Satan, if Satan was totally hot and wearing black Armani. I could tell this wasn’t even an Armani knockoff. Actually, it might not have been Armani. It might have been Tom Ford. I’m having a hormone attack. He looked me in the eye and I think I might have had an orgasm. Maybe it was just a rush. I was too flustered to appreciate it. Am I sweating? Is my face red? Maybe I don’t need a Xanax. Maybe I just need a sandwich. I could be hallucinating from hunger.”

“Where was this man?” I asked.

“He popped out of the little alleyway between the buildings. I came out here to get some air, and he just suddenly appeared.”

“Did he say anything?”