Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(17)

“Talk to you later,” I said. And I hung up.

I drove two blocks, and I got a call from Morelli.

“Big day today,” he said.

“How so?”

“You have a new job. Are you on your way to the ice cream factory?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you excited?”

“Are you?”

“Not at the moment,” Morelli said.

“Do you have any news on the Bogart Bar man?”

“Nothing interesting. It would help if we could find Virgil. Maybe you could keep your eyes open for him.”

“In my spare time.”

“Boy, you’re cranky today. Probably because you didn’t see me last night.”

“How was the poker game?”

“I lost my shirt. I think Anthony cheats.”

Morelli’s brother, Anthony, cheats on everything, including his wife. Aside from that one major character flaw he’s a fun guy.

“If you ask me nice I might come over for dinner tonight,” Morelli said.

“Sure. Hot dogs?”

“I heard you got meatballs at Giovichinni’s.”

“I ate them for breakfast.”

“I’ll bring dinner,” Morelli said.

“Deal. I have to go now. I have to concentrate on my driving.”

Mostly what I had to do was whip up some enthusiasm for Harry Bogart ice cream.

By the time I walked through the front door and up to the receptionist I had almost convinced myself I could do the job. I could learn how to make ice cream. I could mingle. And maybe I could find the killer.

“I’m Stephanie Plum,” I told the woman behind the desk. “The employment office is expecting me.”

“The employment office is in a bit of disarray,” the woman said, “but Mr. Bogart will personally speak with you. He’s in his office just down the hall. Go through the double doors and turn left.”

Okay, I told myself. I get to meet Mr. Ice Cream. I get to talk to the inventor of the Bogart Bar. It could be cool, right?

I walked the hall and came to the little gold plaque on the wall that said “Harry Bogart.” The door was open so I peeked in at the man behind the massive oak desk.

“Hell-o-o-o,” I said. “Knock, knock.”

“For God’s sake just come on in,” Harry Bogart said. “Who the hell are you?”

“Stephanie Plum.”

“Who?”

“I work for Rangeman. I’m supposed to assume a job on the floor so I can look around at your operation.”

Harry Bogart was a big man. Big blockhead with buzz-cut gray hair. Close-set blue eyes, bushy gray eyebrows, ruddy cheeks, thick lips, jowls. Not entirely attractive. I guessed he might be six feet tall and about fifty pounds overweight. He was wearing a tan suit, white dress shirt, brown-and-blue-striped tie. He fit the suit like an overstuffed sausage.

“You don’t look like much,” Bogart said to me. “Is this how you come to a job interview? Do you smoke dope?”

I told myself to keep thinking about the bonus and how I was going to avenge the sullying of the Bogart Bar. Telling Bogart he was a bloated ass was pointless, since he undoubtedly already knew this.

“It wasn’t my understanding that this was an interview,” I said, giving him my best kiss-up smile. “I was told I would be working on the floor.”

“I don’t want you talking to anyone. If anyone even suspects you’re a snitch you’re out of here.”

I felt my eyes involuntarily narrow and knew it wasn’t doing a lot for the smile still plastered to my face.

“Maybe you want to review this plan with Ranger,” I told Bogart.

Bogart leaned forward and squinted at me. “What’s with the black? Why is he always wearing black?”

“It’s easy. Everything matches.”

“That’s nuts. What the hell’s wrong with him? Even his underwear?”

“Getting back to your security problem,” I said.

“Someone’s out to get me,” Bogart said. “I think it’s that skunk Morris.”

“Do you think he killed your human resources man?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s sneaky. Always looking like such a goody-goody do-gooder, but you turn your back on him and he’s a sneak.”

“Okay.”

I looked around the office. It was a cluttered mess. Stacks of files and magazines. Bowling trophies. Photographs on every surface. Harry Bogart with kids, dogs, politicians, and a monkey eating ice cream.

“Am I supposed to be working now?” I asked him.

He pressed a button on his multiline phone and yelled at it. “Kathy!”

A moment later a fifty-something woman stuck her head in the open door to Bogart’s office. “Yes?” she asked.

Bogart gestured at me. “This is what’s-her-name. She’s going to be working the line. Get her suited up and take her to Jim.”

There was the sound of activity in the hall, and the receptionist and Lula shoved themselves past Kathy and stumbled into the room.

“I tried to stop her,” the receptionist said to Bogart.

“This receptionist woman don’t know nothing about political correctness,” Lula said to Bogart. “She didn’t want me to come in here because I’m a black woman of a certain size.”