Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)
“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.