Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum 25)

“No,” Lula said. “He just stood there, staring. It felt like my skin was on fire. And then he waved his hand, and there was a flash of light and a whoosh of smoke, and he was gone.”

“Dark hair, dark eyes, slim?” I asked. “About six foot tall?”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “And wicked hot. Do you know him?”

“Maybe. A while back I ran across a man who had a flair for the dramatic and fit that description.”

“And he could disappear in smoke?” Lula asked.

“He’s a magician. Among other things. His name is Gerwulf Grimoire. Most people know him as Wulf. He’s Swiss born, and he speaks perfect English with a slight British accent.”

“‘Gerwulf Grimoire’ is a horrible name,” Lula said. “It could leave you damaged to have a name like that. You could be tainted.”

I didn’t think Wulf was tainted, but I didn’t think he was normal, either. Wulf was a slightly scary enigma.

I gave Lula her magazine and handed the bread and eggs over to Stretch.

“We got a big takeout order,” Stretch said. “It’s on the counter behind me. Takeout boxes are on the overhead shelves.”

“And?”

“And fill it. I’m going flat-out, and Raymond’s up to his tits in fries.”

I looked at the list on the counter. Ten sandwiches, four fries, six sides of slaw, two mac and cheese, one rice pudding, and two pieces of apple pie.

“Move over,” Lula said. “I’m all about this.” She took a red flowered scarf out of her purse and wrapped it around her hair bandanna style. “Where’s my hat? I need my hat.”

I gave her one of the hats and took a step back.

“You get to be the sous chef,” Lula said, taking the list from me. “Put your hat on and get me a loaf of bread. It says here we gotta start with a number seven. What the heck is a number seven?”

“I thought you had the menu memorized.”

“I only memorized the ones I wanted to eat. Some fool don’t know better than to order a number seven. Maybe we should do him a favor and give him a number twelve.”

“The menu says a number seven is turkey and Swiss on whole grain.”

“Three ounces of turkey and two slices of Swiss,” Stretch said. “The turkey is pre-measured. Mustard on the Swiss side and mayo on the turkey. Every sandwich gets two deli pickles.”

“Boy, they got this to a science,” Lula said. “Everything’s in these bins. All I need is the bread. Who eats multigrain, anyway? Multigrain don’t melt in your mouth like white bread.”

I gave Lula the bread and she slathered mustard on one and mayo on the other. She added the turkey and Swiss and shook her head.

“This isn’t a Lula sandwich,” she said. “I can’t be proud sending out a sandwich like this.” She added Tabasco and two strips of bacon. “This person is gonna thank me. I’m giving them a superior culinary experience.”

She sliced the sandwich in half, and I put it in one of the plastic containers with two pickles.

“You gotta move faster,” Stretch said. “Pickup’s waiting.”

“You gotta chill,” Lula said. “I’m making gastrointestinal history. You can’t rush this artistic shit.”

We slapped together nine more sandwiches, got the sides put together and boxed up the pie. Dalia bagged everything and took it all to the pickup counter.

“I need pie,” Lula said. “I got a pie craving.”

“What about the sandwiches you wanted?”

“I ate a lot of the fixings while we were doing the takeout order, but I didn’t get any pie.”