Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

It was a beautiful day. Full-on sunshine and seventy degrees. I was in the SUV next to Ranger, and I was thinking about the beach. Forty-five minutes away. I wanted to push all thoughts about the deli aside, spread a blanket on the sand, and lay there listening to the surf, feeling the sun on my face.

“We should go to Point Pleasant,” I said. “We could lay on the beach and hold hands.”

“Babe,” Ranger said.

His voice was soft and wistful. Okay, wistful might be a stretch for Ranger, but there was a quality there that wasn’t familiar. Or maybe I was just projecting my own feelings. God knows, I felt wistful.

We were halfway down Stark, almost to State Street, and Ranger pulled to the curb.

“We can’t go to the beach,” he said. “Is there something else? Would you like an ice cream cone? Flowers? A kitten?”

“A kiss,” I said.

He leaned across the console and kissed me. Gentle. Loving. Wistful.

“Thanks,” I said. “I feel better now.”

“Anytime,” he said.

* * *

¦ ¦ ¦

Lula was on a rant when we got to the deli.

“I can’t work under these conditions,” Lula said, arms waving in the air. “There’s no condiments. How am I supposed to create my art burgers and nuevoninis without no condiments?”

“What’s a ‘nuevonini’?” I asked.

“It’s when I use the panini machine to fabulitize an ordinary plain-ass sandwich,” Lula said. “My peeps have expectations.”

“Why don’t we have any condiments?”

“On account of nobody ordered any,” Lula said.

“You’re using hot sauce and mayo like it was water,” Stretch said. “How am I supposed to know we’re out of everything? It’s not like I’m the manager here.”

Everyone looked over at me.

“What?” I said.

“You are the manager,” Raymond said. “You are the place where the buck stops. You should be more diligent in your job. If you were doing your job we would not have to listen to this large woman going bat-shitty.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I promise I’ll take inventory tonight. Give me a list and I’ll make a store run.”

Lula glared at Raymond, her hands on her hips. “What do you mean by ‘large woman’? Are you making some politically incorrect comment on my

size? Are you engaging in body shaming?”

“You are a big woman,” Raymond said. “It is a fact.”

“I’m not tall, though,” Lula said.

“No, you are not tall,” Raymond said. “You are robust.”

“Okay,” Lula said. “I can live with that.”

Customers were beginning to trickle in. Ella was serving water and distributing menus. Lula gave me her list.