Look Alive Twenty-Five Read online

  “This won’t take long,” I told her. “We’ll put the orange juice in the fridge, and you can finish it when you get back.”

  “This is all a misunderstanding,” she said. “I wasn’t stealing anything. I just forgot to pay. And then that horrible man attacked me.”

  “The one you punched in the nose?” Lula asked.

  “Yes. That’s the one. The purse snatcher. He tried to rob me. He grabbed my tote bag.”

  “You might have been confused on account of you had too much orange juice,” Lula said.

  “I need a lot of orange juice,” Gurky said. “I have a lot of anger. I’ve been married to the same man for fifty-two years and last month he decided I wasn’t ‘doing it for him anymore,’ so he ran off with my sister. My sister! I always knew she was a slut. And he took my cat, Miss Muffy. He never even liked Miss Muffy.”

  “Boy, that’s so crummy,” Lula said. “What a pig. You know what we should do? We should get Miss Muffy back. We should catnap her.”

  “We’re not in the catnap business,” I said to Lula. “And you’re allergic to cats.” I looked at my watch. Time was ticking away. We had to open the deli’s doors for the cooks at ten o’clock. “We need to take you downtown to check in with the court,” I said to Gurky. “We’ll help you lock up the house.”

  “I won’t have to stay in jail, will I?” Gurky asked.

  “No,” I told her. “Court is in session. We’ll get you rescheduled and rebonded.”

  A half hour later we buckled Gurky into the back seat of my Nova. She’d put on lipstick, changed her shoes, slurped down some more orange juice, checked her door locks fifteen times, and tried to sneak out her back door.

  “This is going to be tight,” Lula said. “I don’t see how you’re going to drop her off at the courthouse and get back to the deli in time.”

  “I’ll stop at the deli first, open the door and make sure everyone gets in, and then we’ll take Gurky to the courthouse.”

  “Good thinking,” Lula said. “That’ll work.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Red River Deli isn’t anywhere near a river. It’s near the train station, next to a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. The gentrification process put in streetlamps that looked like gaslights, and brick-fronted a bunch of row houses and apartment buildings that previously had looked like a slum. The row houses and apartment buildings were gutted and renovated and sold to young professionals who worked in New York and wanted to be close to the train station. Unfortunately, some of the vagrants and gangbangers who roamed the area didn’t get the gentrification memo so from time to time the area could be a little sketchy.

  I parked on the street in front of the deli, and Lula and I looked over our shoulders at Annie Gurky in the back seat. Her hands were cuffed in front of her for comfort, and she was slumped over, softly snoring.

  “Looks like she’s sleeping off all that orange juice,” Lula said. “Seems a shame to wake her. Maybe we should just crack a window and lock her in.”

  “Hey!” I said. “Annie!”

  No response.

  Two men were standing in front of the deli. One was Caucasian and the other looked Indian subcontinent. They were wearing baggy striped chef’s pants, white chef’s coats, and Red River Deli ball caps turned backward. They were smoking weed and texting.

  “Guess those are our chefs,” Lula said. “They look real professional. They got chef suits and everything. Maybe we should put our hats on.”

  “Maybe not,” I said.

  “Personally, I’m all about being an assistant restaurant manager,” Lula said. “It’s a excellent advancement opportunity. I hope you’re not going to rain on my parade.”

  “There is no parade. We know nothing about running a restaurant. We have no experience.”

  “That’s not true. I eat in restaurants all the time. And I saw Ratatouille.”

  “Ratatouille is a cartoon.”

  “Well, I watch other shows too. I used to watch Hell’s Kitchen with that cranky Ramsay guy.”

  I got out of the car and Lula followed. I introduced myself and asked the two men if they were our chefs.

  “We are very much so,” the smaller man said. “My name is Raymond. I have my green card.”

  The other chef was lanky and about six foot tall. He had black hair, a soul patch, and a gold tooth. He looked down at me through a weed haze.

  “Stretch,” he said.

  “Even I do not know his true name,” Raymond said. “He has always been Stretch.”

  I unlocked the front door and told them they couldn’t smoke weed inside.

  “This is not a good beginning,” Raymond said. “I’m hoping you do not have more onerous rules we must follow.”

  Stretch playfully put his hand on Lula’s boob, and Lula kicked him in the nuts. Stretch doubled over and sucked air.

  “Onerous that rule,” Lula said, and she sashayed inside.

  The deli consisted of one room with booths lining two walls. Six tables for four were positioned in the middle of the room, and there was counter seating on the far end. The floors were scarred wood. The booths were red leather. Lighting was close to daylight and appropriate for a deli. There was a very slight lingering odor of fried onion rings, but overall it didn’t smell bad. In fact, it smelled good if you were a fan of onion rings.

  I walked past the counter seating and entered the kitchen. It was a galley setup with a large pantry to one side. It looked almost clean. I didn’t see any roaches that were sneakers-up. I took that as a good sign.

  I looked at a plastic-coated menu. Sandwiches, hot and cold. The usual sides. Standard deli desserts. Nothing complicated. Maybe Lula and I could pull this off.

  “Okay,” I said to Raymond and Stretch. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing here. Lula and I will check back around noon.”

  “Whoa, not so fast,” Stretch said. “What about the deliveries?”

  “What about them?”

  “You have to take inventory and schedule them. Then you have to make sure we get the right stuff on time. And you have to arrange for payment.”

  “You don’t do that?”

  “I make sandwiches, Cookie Puss.”

  I looked over at Raymond. “What about him?”

  “He’s the fry guy.”

  “Who did it yesterday?” I asked.

  “No one,” Stretch said. “So, we’re up shit’s creek today. We had a manager, but he disappeared. Went out for a break two days ago and never came back. He’s the third manager in two weeks to disappear.”

  “And we always find one shoe,” Raymond said. “One manager shoe by the dumpster, but no manager.”

  “Do the police know about this?”

  “Oh yes,” Raymond said. “They have been fully informed. They said it is a great mystery.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the new manager,” Lula said to me. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes . . . especially since sometime soon he could be left with only one. I would hate that. I take my shoes seriously.”

  “I’m the new manager,” I said.

  “Oh yeah,” Lula said. “I forgot for a minute. Bummer. On the other hand, you could see the bright side and think this might be like Cinderella. She left a shoe behind and look how good it turned out for her.”

  “I can’t take inventory right now,” I told Stretch. “You’re going to have to do it. Order whatever you need. I’ll be back before you open at noon.”

  “I need a raise,” Stretch said. “Can I order that?”

  Lula and I walked out of the deli and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Where did we park the car?” Lula asked.

  “Here,” I said. “We parked it right here in front of the deli.”

  “I don’t usually like to jump to conclusions, but
I think someone stole your car,” Lula said. “It might have been that Annie Gurky. She could have woke up and needed more orange juice.”

  That would be the best-case scenario. The worst would be that some thug took the car with Annie Gurky in it. I hauled my cellphone out of my bag and placed a call.

  There are two men in my life. Joe Morelli is a Trenton cop who works plainclothes in crimes against persons. Morelli and I have a long history together that includes being engaged and not being engaged and several times almost being engaged. He has a nice little house on Slater Street that he inherited from his Aunt Rose. He has a big orange dog, two brothers, two sisters, and a crazy grandmother named Bella. He’s also totally sexy in an Italian movie star, homicide detective kind of way. The other guy is Ricardo Carlos Manoso, better known as Ranger. He’s Latino. He’s former Special Forces. He’s hot. He owns Rangeman, a high-end security business operating out of a high-tech, low-profile building in downtown Trenton. And he’s dedicated to keeping me alive and in sight. His motives aren’t entirely altruistic.

  “Are you calling the cops?” Lula asked.

  “No. I’m calling Ranger. It’s the fastest way to find my car.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  RANGER ATTACHES TRACKING devices to my cars. It was initially annoying, but I’ve gotten used to it, and in all honesty, it’s come in handy on occasions like this.

  “Babe,” Ranger said.

  Depending on the inflection, Babe could mean many things. Irritation, affection, desire, curiosity. Today it was without inflection. Today it was simply hello.

  “My car is missing,” I said. “I parked it in front of Red River Deli, and now it’s gone.”

  There was silence while he pulled my car up on his computer.

  “It’s on lower Stark Street,” Ranger said. “Probably headed for the chop shop on the fourth block. I’ll send someone out to retrieve it.”

  “It might have an elderly woman in the back seat.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Doubtful. I was returning her to the court.”

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.

  “Now what?” Lula asked.

  “We wait,” I said.

  Ranger keeps several mobile units constantly patrolling accounts throughout the city. He was going to send one of them to Stark to intercept my car, and I was hoping he’d send another to rescue me.

  Five minutes passed and a shiny black SUV rolled down the street and stopped at the curb. A guy who looked like a Marine recruit got out and motioned us into the back seat. He was wearing black Nikes, black cargo pants, and a form-fitting black T-shirt. The T-shirt had a Rangeman logo on the short sleeve that spanned his bulging biceps.

  “Hal has your car,” he said. “Did you know there’s a woman in the back seat?”

  “Yes. Is she okay?”

  “Hal said she was asleep.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  My car was parked one block off Stark. A black Rangeman SUV was parked behind it, and Hal was standing between the two cars. Hal is an over-muscled giant who faints at the sight of blood. A couple of skinny teens were sitting on the curb. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and one looked like he’d smashed his face into Hal’s massive fist.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked Hal.

  “Yeah,” Hal said. “He’s only bleeding a little. It was an accident.”

  “I bet. What are you going to do with them?”

  “Turn them loose. They’re under the age limit.” Hal grinned. “They freaked out when I told them they kidnapped an old lady. They hadn’t noticed her in the back seat.”

  I glanced in at Annie. She was still sleeping.

  I thanked Hal, and I called Connie to tell her we would be turning Annie Gurky over to the court in about fifteen minutes, and she would want to get rebonded. Lula and I weren’t certified to write bond, so Connie or Vinnie would have to make a trip downtown.

  Lula and I got into my Nova, and I drove to the police station. I pulled into the lot across from the municipal building, and Annie woke up.

  “Are we here already?” she asked.

  I walked her through the front door and left her with the desk lieutenant. I told him someone would be in shortly to bond her out so he shouldn’t misplace her.

  “We gotta get back to the deli,” Lula said. “It’s almost noon and I want my free lunch.”

  I wasn’t anxious to get back to the deli. Truth is, I was thinking about bailing on the deal. I was freaked by the manager disappearances and the fact that my car had been stolen the instant I stepped away from it.

  “I think I might quit,” I told Lula. “Vinnie can find someone else to be manager.”

  “You can’t quit,” Lula said. “You’ve only just got the job. How do you know you don’t like it? And we’ve never even had any of our free lunches. I already memorized the menu. I’m gonna have a number twelve and a number sixteen and a number twenty-two today.”

  “Three sandwiches?”

  “Number twenty-two is a dessert.”

  I gave up a sigh, returned to my Nova, and headed for the deli. I would quit after lunch.

  “I’m always excited about new beginnings,” Lula said. “This could turn into something big for us. I got a good feeling about this.”

  “I have a horrible feeling about this. What about the disappearing managers?”

  “It could be a big hoax. Like a joke. Or fake news. There’s a lot of that fake news going around these days. Heck, we could be in the middle of a reality show. It’s not like they found mutilated dead bodies. They just found a shoe, so how bad could it be?”

  I cruised past the deli, looking for a parking place. There weren’t any open spaces, so I drove down the one-lane alley that intersected the block and found parking next to the deli’s small dumpster. Lula and I entered through the back door and tiptoed through the kitchen.

  Raymond was working the fry station and griddle. Stretch was assembling sandwiches and plating. A twentysomething woman with a blond ponytail and a lot of tattoos was waiting tables. She was wearing jeans and a tank top and looked like she could kick my ass.

  “Howdy,” Lula said to her. “I’m Lula, the new assistant manager, and this is Stephanie Plum, standing next to me. She’s the new manager.”

  “Dalia Koharchek,” the woman said, extending her hand to me, looking down at my feet. “Congratulations, you’ve still got two shoes.”

  “About those managers . . . ” I said.

  “Number seven up,” Stretch said.

  Dalia grabbed two plates off the service counter and whisked them away to a booth.

  “I want my lunch now,” Lula said to Stretch. “A number twelve with extra bacon and a sixteen.”

  “Yeah, and I want a BJ,” he said. “You know what our chances of getting any of those anytime soon are?”

  “You should be more careful,” Lula said. “That might be considered a sexually improper response.”

  Stretch sliced a hoagie roll and threw some shredded lettuce in it. “Bite me.”

  I grabbed Lula by the arm and dragged her out of the kitchen.

  “He’s lucky he said that to me on account of those off-color remarks don’t bother me,” Lula said. “I even kind of like them, but there’s less-fun people who would report him to the PC police, and he could be in big trouble.”

  “Hey, Cookie Puss,” Stretch yelled. “I got shorted by my purveyor. You’re gonna need to do a market run.”

  “My name is Stephanie,” I said. “Stephanie.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Stretch said. “We got an account at the market two blocks down. I need six dozen eggs and four loaves of thick-cut white bread.”

  “I’ll keep an eye open here,” Lula said to me. “Since you’re going shopping anyway, I’d appreci
ate it if you could pick up a Star magazine.”

  I walked the two blocks, bought my eggs, bread, and Star magazine, and walked back. Lula was standing on the sidewalk in front of the deli, and she was waving at me.

  “I need a Xanax,” Lula said. “I’m having hallucinations. I just saw a man disappear in a puff of smoke. He wasn’t any ordinary man, either. He was like Satan, if Satan was totally hot and wearing black Armani. I could tell this wasn’t even an Armani knockoff. Actually, it might not have been Armani. It might have been Tom Ford. I’m having a hormone attack. He looked me in the eye and I think I might have had an orgasm. Maybe it was just a rush. I was too flustered to appreciate it. Am I sweating? Is my face red? Maybe I don’t need a Xanax. Maybe I just need a sandwich. I could be hallucinating from hunger.”

  “Where was this man?” I asked.

  “He popped out of the little alleyway between the buildings. I came out here to get some air, and he just suddenly appeared.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “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.”