Look Alive Twenty-Five Page 6

  “The cat tries to run out when you open the door,” she said. “Either come in or go away. I can’t hold this cat forever.”

  Lula and I stepped inside and closed the door. The woman put the cat down. It gave itself a quick couple licks, and walked away.

  “We’re looking for Jaimie Rolls,” I said.

  The woman squinted at us. “Are you hookers?”

  “Not anymore,” Lula said. “Only once in a while if I really need the money. Like sometimes when Macy’s has a shoe sale.”

  I gave the woman my card. “We’re trying to locate Victor Waggle,” I said. “We thought Jaimie might be able to help us.”

  “Jaimie is in the cellar,” the woman said. “It’s his man cave. He goes down there to play with himself.”

  “Nice to see you’re open-minded about it,” Lula said.

  “My daughter-in-law doesn’t like it,” the woman said, “but I don’t see anything wrong with all those video games.”

  “Sure,” Lula said. “I knew you were talking about video games.”

  The woman led us through the house to the cellar door. “Anyway, playing those games is better than when he tries to sneak the women in. Hookers and groupies and gropers. The worst is that mud wrestler Animal. He says he knows all these women because he’s a rock star, but I think it comes from delivering pizza.”

  The cellar was unfinished, with beams and electrical wires overhead. The floor was concrete. Lighting was utilitarian. The furnace and water heater took up one corner, and a lot of the rest of the space was given over to storage. In the midst of all this Jaimie had positioned a bedraggled couch, a large scarred wooden coffee table, and a television on a card table.

  He was slouched on the couch in half-darkness, gamer remote in hand, concentrating on digitally killing people. He flicked a look at Lula and me and went back to his game.

  “Ten bucks or a BJ for an autograph,” he said.

  “We’re looking for Victor Waggle,” I said. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “He’ll be at the Snake Pit on Thursday.”

  “How about today?” Lula asked, moving in front of the television.

  “Jeez, bitch,” Jaimie said. “You got your fatness in front of my screen. I’m laying waste to the kingdom here. I’m like on a siege.”

  “Victor Waggle,” I said. “Where is he?”

  “He’s nowhere. The dude is loose.”

  “He’s ‘loose.’ What does that even mean?”

  “It means he moves around. The bitches love him. They all want his seed.”

  Great. The moron with a snake tattooed on his neck is a seed spreader. Just what the world needs.

  “How do you get in touch with Victor?” I asked.

  “Sometimes he checks his text messages,” Jaimie said. “Depends if he’s having a good day or a bad day.”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “He stabs people on a bad day. And then he pisses on their dog.”

  “It was wrong of him to piss on the dog. We all called him on that,” Jaimie said.

  Lula and I returned to my car.

  “I wouldn’t want him delivering my pizza,” Lula said. “He was rude and unattractive.”

  Martin Kammel was next up. He was a barista at Julio Coffee on State Street. His address was 415 Stark Street, apartment 3B. That was the fourth block of Stark and marginally safe.

  “At least he has an address,” Lula said. “And he’s even got a good job, in spite of the spider on his forehead.”

  Julio Coffee was in a strip mall on the fringe of the state capitol complex. I parked in the strip mall lot, and Lula and I walked into the coffee shop. It looked a lot like a Starbucks except it was called Julio. Two men and three women were working behind the counter. None of them had a spider tattooed on their forehead. Lula ordered a Double Chocolate Chip Frappuccino, a Rice Krispies Treat, and a Morning Glory muffin. I ordered a Caramel Frappuccino.

  “I was hoping Martin would be here today,” I said to the woman who took my order.

  “He’s off today,” she said. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Are we going to his apartment now?” Lula asked me.

  “No. There’s not enough time for that. We’ll go after the lunch rush.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Lula and I got back to the deli a little before noon, and people were already lining up outside. I opened the front door, and they followed me in. Raymond was at the fry station. Dalia was on the phone, taking down an order. Stretch was working at the prep table. Hal was standing behind Stretch. Hal was the elephant in the room. He’s the size of a Volkswagen bus and not built to fit in a galley kitchen.

  “Randy has all the cameras installed and working,” Hal said to me. “And I’m supposed to stay here and make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

  “Very thoughtful but entirely unnecessary,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I even have a gun in my bag.”

  “I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight,” Hal said. “Ranger won’t be happy if I disobey orders. And it’s not good when Ranger isn’t happy.”

  “I can’t work like this,” Stretch said. “You gotta get Stegosaurus out of the prep area. And I need a sandwich maker.”

  “I’m up,” Lula said. “Where’s my hat? Where’s my apron? Where’s the hot sauce?”

  I moved Hal into a corner, and I joined Lula.

  “I’m getting the hang of this,” Lula said. “I need turkey. Get me more turkey. And put mayo on this roll for me. And add some pickles.”

  “Wait,” I said. “This is an order for ham and cheese.”

  “Say what?”

  “You have to look at the ticket. You can’t just give them anything.”

  “This here’s Surprise Day. It’s my new promotional idea. You order something and then you get a surprise. This guy’s surprise is a turkey sandwich. Give me some of that green stuff.”

  “That’s wasabi.”

  “No shit. I’m gonna wasabi the heck out of this sandwich.”

  “Where’s my ham and cheese?” Stretch yelled. “Where’s my pastrami on rye?”

  “Keep your shirt on,” Lula said. “I’m working under harsh circumstances. I can’t find no more turkey.”

  “Fries are up,” Raymond said. “Rings are up.”

  Stretch took the wasabi turkey from Lula, sliced it in half, and sucked in air.

  “Damn,” he said. “I cut off part of my finger.”

  I looked over and blood was all over his white chef’s jacket, dripping off his finger onto the cutting board.

  “Somebody get a Band-Aid,” Lula said. “This boy needs a Band-Aid.”

  Stretch calmly picked something off the cutting board and stuck it to his bloody finger. He wrapped a paper towel around it all, took a Band-Aid from Raymond, secured the towel with the Band-Aid, and held his hand above his head.

  “No big deal,” he said. “I’ve done this before.”

  “Yes, this happens many times,” Raymond said. “He must go to get his finger stitched back on now.”

  Hal was standing next to me. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he crashed to the floor.

  “This big man just fell to the floor,” Raymond said.

  “He faints when he sees blood,” I said. “He’ll come around.”

  “I must return to my fry station,” Raymond said. “I have many orders of onion rings that must be done to perfection.”

  “Take Stretch to the emergency room to get stitched up,” I said to Lula. “Hal and I will take over here.”

  Everyone looked down at Hal. Lula toed him with her Louboutin knockoffs. Hal opened his eyes and blankly stared at the ceiling.

  “What?” Hal said.

  “You fainted,” I told him. “Stay down until I get things cleaned up.”
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  “Okay,” Hal said. “Don’t tell Ranger.”

  Dalia and I scrubbed everything with soap and bleach. I changed out the cutting board. I got Hal to his feet.

  “Are you any good at making sandwiches?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. I make good sandwiches. The trick is to put the mustard on the meat side and never use lettuce. Lettuce is for sissies.”

  I got him dressed up in a hat and apron and handed him a takeout order for six people.

  “You do the takeouts, and I’ll do the table orders,” I told Hal.

  He looked at the slip of paper. “No problem. I can do this, but there’s no sliced turkey in the container labeled TURKEY.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This is Surprise Day. Be creative.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE DELI WAS empty by two o’clock. I suspected most of the customers would never return. I did my best, but I was at the bottom of a learning curve. I had mustard in my hair, ketchup on my shirt, my workstation was a mess, and the floor was a health hazard.

  “It is a very good thing that Stretch is not here to see this disgrace,” Raymond said. “He would poop himself.”

  “Let’s just clean up and move forward,” I said.

  I was praying that Stretch would be able to work the dinner shift. The dinner menu included hot sandwiches that involved gravy and melted cheese. This was way beyond my culinary skills.

  “The dinner customers will be easier to please,” Raymond said. “You can hide the ugliness of your sandwich making under a generous portion of gravy. They will not know what they are eating.”

  “I don’t know how to make gravy,” I said.

  “You do not make gravy,” Raymond said. “Gravy comes in five-gallon tubs. You might not have noticed them because the gravy tubs are very similar to the tubs of rice pudding and lard. In fact, once when Stretch was very stoned he gave a woman a dish of lard in place of the rice pudding. It was extremely funny.”

  I thought this must be fry-cook humor. And I hoped he never told that story to Lula because she took her rice pudding seriously.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  The kitchen was almost clean when Lula and Stretch returned. Stretch had a bandage wrapped around his finger. Lula was carrying a grocery bag.

  “We would have got back sooner, but we stopped for turkey and stuff,” Lula said. “How’d lunch go?”

  “Lunch was great,” I said. “Easy peasy.”

  “Yes,” Raymond said. “I was a frying maniac.”

  Dalia rolled her eyes and continued with her floor mopping.

  “How bad is your finger?” I asked Stretch.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I just chopped the tip off. They were able to stitch it back on. I’ve done worse.”

  “Once he dropped the cleaver on his toe,” Raymond said. “That was a bad time.”

  “Are you able to work?” I asked him.

  “Cutie pie, if I had a dollar for every time I sliced off part of a finger I’d be a rich man.”

  “Okay then,” I said. “I’m going to leave for a while. I’ll be back to help with the dinner trade.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lula said.

  “Me too,” Hal said.

  I didn’t mind this arrangement because if I got lucky and ran across Victor Waggle, Hal would be useful. He had blond hair styled in a buzz cut, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and enough muscle to stop a freight train. Plus, he could be the wheel man, and I would get to ride in a nice clean Rangeman SUV that gobbled up gas bought by Rangeman.

  “Where are we going?” Hal asked.

  “The fourth block of Stark Street,” I said. “I want to talk to Martin Kammel.”

  “Hey, I know that dude,” Hal said. “He’s lead guitar with Rockin’ Armpits.”

  I had a moment of blank brain. Hal knew Rockin’ Armpits.

  “I have one of their CDs. I got it signed,” Hal said.

  “One of the Armpits, Victor Waggle, is FTA,” I said. “The only address he gave is a brick building that’s full of bullet holes and gang graffiti. It’s at the end of Stark.”

  “That sounds like the Snake Pit,” Hal said. “I don’t think anyone lives there. It’s gutted inside. Only thing in it is a stage. I don’t think there’s even any plumbing.”

  “Is it safe to go there?”

  “I wouldn’t go there unless the band was performing. They bring in lighting, and if you pay to park no one will steal your car. That’s how they make their money . . . on the parking. And there’s a big drug market. Once in a while someone gets shot, but aside from that it’s pretty safe.”

  “And you go to this?”

  “I used to date a girl who was all into Rockin’ Armpits. We went to a couple Thursdays at the Pit. I haven’t been there lately.”

  It never occurred to me that Hal might have a life beyond Rangeman. He was a nice guy, but he looked like he ate kale and raw meat, and his sole recreation was skinny-dipping in the ocean in January.

  Hal cut across the center of the city, turned onto Stark Street, and parked on the fourth block. Kammel’s building was a narrow four-floor walkup. The stairwell was dark and smelled like urine and burrito. There were two units on the third floor. I rang the bell for 3B.

  “I don’t hear no bell ringing,” Lula said. “I think his bell is broken.”

  I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing.

  “Maybe you didn’t knock loud enough,” Lula said. “He could be hard of hearing being that he plays in a band. He might not be wearing his hearing aid.”

  “Let me try,” Hal said.

  Hal pounded on the door, and the door splintered around the lock and popped open.

  “Oops,” Hal said. “My bad.”

  A tall, skinny guy with a lot of curly black hair and a spider tattooed on his forehead looked out at us.

  “Hey,” he said, “you broke my door.”

  “Sorry,” Hal said. “It was an accident.”

  “No big deal,” Spider Head said. “I’m just crashing here. It isn’t really my door.”

  “Martin Kammel?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I gave him my card. “I’m looking for Victor Waggle. He missed his court date and he needs to reschedule.”

  “This is about pissing on the dog, right? We all told him he shouldn’t have done that.”

  “He also stabbed two people,” I said.

  “That was an accident. He was on a bad trip and got confused,” Kammel said. “Like, that could happen to anybody, right?”

  “It wouldn’t happen to me,” Lula said. “Where can we find Waggle?”

  “No one knows where to find him,” Kammel said. “He’s GhostMan. He’s in the wind.”

  “Let’s break it down,” I said. “Where does GhostMan sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” Kammel said. “He travels light and he moves around.”

  “He’s homeless,” I said.

  “Home is a state of mind,” Kammel said. “Some people carry their home with them.” He thumped his chest. “In their heart.”

  “Is that where your home is?” Lula asked him.

  “Naw,” he said. “I’m shacked up here with a crazy bitch.”

  We left Kammel and went back to the Rangeman SUV.

  “That was an unsatisfying experience,” Lula said. “We didn’t find out anything, and he didn’t even look like a rock star.”

  I checked my notes. “We have one last band member. Russel Frick. He’s a lot older than the rest of the band. Works as a bagger at Food Stuff.”

  “I remember Frick,” Hal said. “He’s real old. Someone told me he plays with Armpit because he’s the only guy they could find with his own drum set.”

  “Food Stuff is on Brunswick Avenue,” I said. “
Let’s see if Frick is bagging today.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Hal took Pennington Avenue to Brunswick Avenue and headed north. Food Stuff was part of a strip mall just past the medical center. It was a warehouse-type supermarket that was locally loved for its double-coupon days. What it lacked in feel-good cozy it made up for in cheap. My kind of store.

  We parked in the lot, and Lula grabbed a shopping cart on the way in.

  “Why the cart?” I asked.

  “I might see something I need. This here’s a good store. They have a bakery that sells day-old stuff that’s as good as new. And I hear they have excellent rotisserie chicken.”

  “We aren’t shopping. We’re working.”

  “Yeah, but this will only take a minute. You can go talk to the old guy, and I’ll scope out the store.”

  I watched Lula swing her ass down an aisle, and I turned to Hal. Hal was a godsend. He knew the band. He recognized the members, and if I didn’t find Waggle by Thursday, he would go to the Snake Pit with me.

  “Do you see Frick?” I asked him.

  “Yep. He’s working with the next-to-last checker. He’s the guy with the long gray hair. He’s wearing the Spider-Man T-shirt.”

  I approached Frick and introduced myself. “I’m looking for Victor Waggle,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all,” Frick said. “He owes me money.”

  “I understand you and Waggle are bandmates.”

  “Rockin’ Armpits,” Frick said.

  He stuffed milk and orange juice into a bag, added deli meats, cheese, and topped it off with a loaf of bread.

  “You’re a good bagger,” Hal said to Frick. “You put all the heavy things in first, and you put the bread in last. I hate when baggers don’t pay attention and the bread gets smushed.”

  “It’s a skill,” Frick said. “I have a good eye for fitting everything in.”

  “About Victor Waggle,” I said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Frick put the bag of groceries in a woman’s cart and set a new empty bag on the shelf in front of him. “I don’t think Victor has an address. He’s like water. He flows into the empty space. He could be hanging out in a condemned building, or he could be living the good life, playing house with a groupie. I’m sure he’ll be at the Snake Pit on Thursday. I’ve been with Armpit for a year, and Victor’s never missed a gig.”