BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(34)

“I don’t use drugs,” I said adamantly. “Never have, never will.”

“The thought never crossed my mind. There’s a matter we need to discuss that is outlined in the employee handbook, but no one ever bothers to read it.” His brows raised. “Have you read it?”

“I uhhm.” I lowered my head in mock shame. “No.”

“Fraternization with tenants is not allowed. No exceptions.” He wagged his index finger at me playfully. “Disobeying that clause will be grounds for dismissal.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” I said. “I’m a man hater.”

His expression changed to surprise. “I didn’t. I had no idea. We do have two female tenants. I don’t think either of them are, you know. But one never knows.”

“No.” I couldn’t help but laugh at his thoughts, so I did. “Not that kind of man hater. I just don’t really date. I’ve had some bad luck with men, and I don’t really trust them.”

He seemed embarrassed. “My apologies for jumping to conclusions.” He crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap. “Men are like latkes.”

I was perplexed at his slice of advice. I gave him a confused look. “I don’t understand.”

“I was going to explain, but your mind is quicker than mine.”

“I’ll listen.”

The expression on his face changed to serious, but he smiled just a little. “Latkes are potato cakes that we eat on Hanukkah. It seems they’d be simple enough to make: potatoes, eggs, onions, salt, Matzo meal, and a little flour. They’re formed into a flat cake, and fried in oil. That’s it.” He turned his palms up and raised one hand slightly higher than the other. “But not all latkes are created equal. And, you can’t tell a good latke from a bad one by looking at it. To find out if they’re suitable, one must get to what’s inside. Only then do you know.”

After a period of silence, I felt like I could speak, so I did. “Let’s say I had a really bad latke.”

“I’ve eaten latkes so bad that they made me ill. The eggs. They must have been raw.” He raised his index finger. “But I didn’t stop eating them because I encountered a bad one.”

I decided I liked Mister Greene. A lot. “One of these days I might try again,” I said, although I didn’t know if or when that day would ever come. “Right now, I still have a stomach ache. The last thing I want to do take a chance by eating another.”

“Sometimes the best latke is the one everyone has left on the platter. The one with no eye appeal. Remember, you must get to what’s inside.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

He reached for his briefcase and then stood. “Send Nadine photos of the office when you’re finished. I’d like to see it.”

“I will.”

As he reached for the door, I stood. “Without taking a bite, how do you know if it’s going to be a good one?”

“You don’t.” He turned around. “But, if it doesn’t taste good, don’t be afraid to spit it out.”





TWENTY - Baker





Using three ten-foot-long pieces of steel pipe, we lifted the air conditioning unit onto four pneumatic tired carts, and then rolled it out of the way.

Tito peered into the ductwork that was exposed by the unit’s absence. “If there’s a silent alarm, I’ll let you know. If not, come in on my signal.” He checked his harness, and then slipped the rope through the carabiner.

Cash planted his feet against the air conditioning unit’s framework, gripped the rope firmly, and gave a nod. “Get in there before the cops get here.”

After climbing inside the L-shaped section of duct, Tito removed the fasteners and handed the individual sections to Ghost. He looked at Cash. “Slow-ly”

Cash lowered him into the building a few inches at a time, giving Tito time to inspect the facility for backup alarms. With my stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension, I waited, hoping a silent alarm didn’t send the small-town cops screeching into the parking lot with guns at the ready.

Thirty seconds later relief washed over me as his voice echoed through the opening.

“Clear!” Tito shouted. “Drop the equipment.”

As Ghost lowered the gear through the opening, I looked at Reno. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “Make it newsworthy.”

He pounded his gloved fist against mine. “Newsworthy? You got it, Bake.”

The jewelry shop was positioned in the center of a small six-unit strip mall. The front of the building had a parapet wall extending up from the roof, giving each storefront a location to mount a sign over their respective business. The wall was only four feet tall, but it provided sufficient shelter to make viewing our activities from the street almost impossible.

As the tone from Reno’s exhaust faded in the distance, three of us disappeared one at a time into the jewelry shop, leaving Cash on the roof to act as lookout.

To thwart thieves, the facility left lights on over the jewelry cases. To keep from raising awareness that the place was being robbed, we’d illuminated the darkened sales floor with battery-powered lights immediately after killing the power supply.