Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(20)

“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.”

“Is this your full-time job?” I asked Frick. “Can you make a living doing this?”

“I was an accountant for forty-three years,” Frick said. “I retired two years ago, and now I do whatever I want.”

“Playing the drums and bagging groceries?”

“Yeah, I get to meet people, and I make some spare change. Gives me something to talk about on my Facebook page.”

“Do you ever hang out with Victor?”

“No. Victor isn’t exactly intellectually stimulating. I think he hangs with Ziggy sometimes. Probably it’s more like Ziggy follows Victor around when he can find him. Ziggy is needy. He’s kind of lost.”

Lula rushed up to the checkout with her cart. “I got us some good bargains. I got a birthday cake for a dollar. It says ‘Happy Birthday, Larry, Ken, and Stanley,’ but nobody came to pick up their cake, so it was on the sale table.” She turned her attention to Frick. “This here’s the band guy?”

“I’m on drums,” Frick said.

“Aren’t you kind of old?” Lula asked.

“Yeah,” Frick said. “Aren’t you kind of fat?”

“I’m not fat,” Lula said, “I’m excessively proportioned. It goes with my extra-large personality. Do you know where we can find Victor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m checking out and eating my cake. I need one of them plastic forks. Hell, forks for everyone.”

We returned to the deli just before the rush-hour surge. Dalia was setting the tables, and Raymond and Stretch were working in the kitchen.

“I’m almost done with prep,” Stretch said. “I need someone on the phone and someone on sandwiches.”

“I’m all about the sandwiches,” Lula said. “I’m the sandwich queen. Get out of my way ’cause here comes Lula.”

“Hal can do the phone orders,” I said.

“Hal doesn’t fit in the kitchen,” Stretch said. “Why can’t you do the phone orders?”

“I’m the manager. I’m going to manage.”

Mostly I was going to look around. I now had a monitor by the register, and I could pull up three views. Two views were of the parking area and dumpster, and one was of the deli interior. It was all being recorded and fed to the Rangeman control room, but I could see it live. I wanted to be able to watch the monitor, and I wanted to watch the customers. Managers disappeared quickly. There had to be someone on the inside. Either the snatcher or someone associated with him was a regular in the deli. And I wasn’t ruling out Raymond and Stretch.

Two men came in and went to the takeout counter. They were wearing wrinkled suits and had their dress shirts unbuttoned at the neck. Commuters fresh off the train. They looked at Hal and hesitated for a moment. Hal was in black Rangeman fatigues with a Glock at his hip.