Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“Doubtful again.”

“Maybe you could drive it,” Mrs. Boot said to Carl.

“I’d like to help, but I’m going off duty at seven o’clock, and I have to be back at Rangeman.”

“Is someone coming to replace you?” I asked.

“Jamil.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He’s good, but he’s a city boy. He might not be comfortable with the chickens.”

“Tell him to pick Lula up on the way and bring her here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE FOOD TRUCK was packed with eggs and ready to go by seven o’clock, but it was without a driver. Darren was alternately dozing, rushing to the bathroom, or ranting nonsense. Mrs. Boot didn’t have a license and didn’t know how to drive the truck.

Lula and Jamil were parked next to Carl’s SUV. They’d made a couple feeble attempts to get to the house, but had been beaten back by the chickens.

“Darren would be setting out right about now,” Mrs. Boot said. “There’s traffic when you get up close to the street fair, and if the truck isn’t in its assigned spot by eight o’clock the spot will get given away.”

I’d contacted Ranger and Morelli when I was at the courthouse and arranged for undercover men to be positioned around the food truck. If the food truck didn’t show up, the men would still be on location to take down Waggle, but it might be messy. The food truck would make it clean.

I went out back with Mrs. Boot and looked at the truck. It was old, but it seemed straightforward. It didn’t have eighteen gears and double clutches. It had the basics. Steering wheel. Brake pedal. Gas pedal. Recognizable gear shift.

“I guess I could try this,” I said.

“I can go along and help,” Mrs. Boot said. “I usually go with Darren.”

The last thing I wanted was Darren’s mom caught in the middle of a police operation.

“I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on Darren,” I said. “Lula will be there to help me.”

I got a ten-minute crash course in burrito making food truck style, and an additional five minutes of parking instruction. I climbed into the truck and got behind the wheel.

“Drive carefully,” Mrs. Boot said. “Try not to break too many eggs. If you follow the driveway through the tall grass, it’ll take you out to the road a short distance from where your friends are parked.”

The engine caught on the second try. I was cautious on the gas and eased the truck along the crude dirt driveway. I followed the ruts through the grass and stopped holding my breath when I reached the road. I met up with the two Rangeman SUVs, and Lula transferred over to the food truck.

“We’re back in the food business,” I said to Lula.

“It was meant to be. It’s an act of God.”

It didn’t seem right to pin this fiasco on God, but I guess at the end of the day, he was the bottom-line guy. Or girl. Or gender-neutral entity.

I crept along the road, past the junkyard and the high-rent parking area. I followed Mrs. Boot’s instructions and looked for the food truck entrance.

“This is real organized,” Lula said. “Someone’s put some thought to this. It’s got professional-made signs, and the gang members aren’t killing each other. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it’s still early.”

Jamil left me at the truck entrance, and my safety was transferred over to the Rangeman contingent on the inside. I handed an envelope filled with cash to the gate master, and in return I received a location number. I slowly rumbled along with my eggs and tortillas and stacks of fry pans.

“Here we go,” Lula said. “Number fourteen.”

I got the truck into position, and I opened the canopy.

“How are we going to do this?” Lula asked. “I didn’t make burritos at the deli.”