Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“Is that where your home is?” Lula asked him.

“Naw,” he said. “I’m shacked up here with a crazy bitch.”

We left Kammel and went back to the Rangeman SUV.

“That was an unsatisfying experience,” Lula said. “We didn’t find out anything, and he didn’t even look like a rock star.”

I checked my notes. “We have one last band member. Russel Frick. He’s a lot older than the rest of the band. Works as a bagger at Food Stuff.”

“I remember Frick,” Hal said. “He’s real old. Someone told me he plays with Armpit because he’s the only guy they could find with his own drum set.”

“Food Stuff is on Brunswick Avenue,” I said. “

Let’s see if Frick is bagging today.”

* * *

¦ ¦ ¦

Hal took Pennington Avenue to Brunswick Avenue and headed north. Food Stuff was part of a strip mall just past the medical center. It was a warehouse-type supermarket that was locally loved for its double-coupon days. What it lacked in feel-good cozy it made up for in cheap. My kind of store.

We parked in the lot, and Lula grabbed a shopping cart on the way in.

“Why the cart?” I asked.

“I might see something I need. This here’s a good store. They have a bakery that sells day-old stuff that’s as good as new. And I hear they have excellent rotisserie chicken.”

“We aren’t shopping. We’re working.”

“Yeah, but this will only take a minute. You can go talk to the old guy, and I’ll scope out the store.”

I watched Lula swing her ass down an aisle, and I turned to Hal. Hal was a godsend. He knew the band. He recognized the members, and if I didn’t find Waggle by Thursday, he would go to the Snake Pit with me.

“Do you see Frick?” I asked him.

“Yep. He’s working with the next-to-last checker. He’s the guy with the long gray hair. He’s wearing the Spider-Man T-shirt.”

I approached Frick and introduced myself. “I’m looking for Victor Waggle,” I said.

“Aren’t we all,” Frick said. “He owes me money.”

“I understand you and Waggle are bandmates.”

“Rockin’ Armpits,” Frick said.

He stuffed milk and orange juice into a bag, added deli meats, cheese, and topped it off with a loaf of bread.

“You’re a good bagger,” Hal said to Frick. “You put all the heavy things in first, and you put the bread in last. I hate when baggers don’t pay attention and the bread gets smushed.”

“It’s a skill,” Frick said. “I have a good eye for fitting everything in.”

“About Victor Waggle,” I said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Frick put the bag of groceries in a woman’s cart and set a new empty bag on the shelf in front of him. “I don’t think Victor has an address. He’s like water. He flows into the empty space. He could be hanging out in a condemned building, or he could be living the good life, playing house with a groupie. I’m sure he’ll be at the Snake Pit on Thursday. I’ve been with Armpit for a year, and Victor’s never missed a gig.”

“Is this your full-time job?” I asked Frick. “Can you make a living doing this?”

“I was an accountant for forty-three years,” Frick said. “I retired two years ago, and now I do whatever I want.”