Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(28)

CHAPTER ELEVEN


IT WAS FRIDAY morning. The sun was shining. My Rangeman escort was on my bumper. I was on my way to the bonds office.

I was going more out of habit than necessity. Realistically speaking, I only had one open file, and chances of making that capture this morning were close to zero—unless Victor Waggle staggered into the road in a drug-induced stupor and I accidentally ran over him.

Lula was eating the Boston Kreme donut when I walked in.

“I never expected to get the good donut today,” Lula said to me. “It took me forever to figure out what to do with my hair. I couldn’t get a salon appointment until tomorrow. Why are you late?”

“I didn’t want to start my day.”

“I hear you,” Lula said. “I’m getting the feeling our life is going south. We’re not having a lot of luck being bounty hunters, and the deli is turning into the kitchen from hell. I’m not even sure about my career as a sandwich maker anymore. I feel like I’m underappreciated by some of the customers.”

“Maybe because they never get what they order.”

“Yeah, but I’m giving them a unique culinary experience. It’s called haute cuisine. I read about it in a magazine while I was waiting to get my nails done. I’m all about haute cuisine and haute couture. I bet I could haute couture the hell out of anyone in Trenton.”

No doubt. At the moment, she was wearing a blond Farrah Fawcett wig, a fire-engine-red sequined tank top, a short spandex purple skirt that had metallic silver threads running through it, and five-inch silver platform heels.

“What’s the word on Vinnie?” I asked Connie.

“He’s supposed to go home today.”

“Is he talking? Did he say what happened to him?”

“He’s talking, but I don’t think he can remember anything about his abduction. At least that’s what he told Lucille. Morelli might know more.”

I called Morelli and asked him about Vinnie. “He seems to be healthy,” Morelli said. “No signs of torture or abuse. Turns out the number on his forehead wasn’t tattooed. It was put on with a marker pen. The last thing he remembers is getting out of his car in the parking area behind the agency. Toxicology reports haven’t come back yet, but I’m sure they’re going to find some sort of amnesiac drug in his system. He had needle tracks on his arm.”

“And his shoe?”

“Clean, but, again, all the lab work isn’t back.”

“I wish you would solve this, because the deli job is getting old.”

“I hate to pass this on to you, but we’ve got zip. We’re counting on you to figure it out.”

“Oh boy.”

“I have to get back to my blood and guts job,” Morelli said. “I’ll see you tonight. We’re still on for dinner at your parents’ house, right?”

“Crap, I completely forgot. I have to work at the deli.”

“I thought this was a birthday party for your sister.”

“Double crap!”

I disconnected and looked at Lula. “I need to get a birthday present for Valerie.”

“You forgot your sister’s birthday, didn’t you?” Lula said. “That’s terrible. Shame on you.”

“I have other stuff on my mind.” Like staying alive.

“What are you going to get her?” Lula asked.

“I don’t know. I hate the whole present thing. I never know what to get anyone.”

“I give people gift cards,” Lula said. “You could buy them in the supermarket. They’re easy. There’s gift cards for everything from Starbucks to Target and in between. I like them on account of the message they send. I figure it puts people on notice. A gift card says I feel obligated to get you something, but I don’t care enough to put any effort into finding just the right gift. Gives people some idea of their place in your life, you see what I’m saying?”

“You gave me a gift card for Christmas,” I said to Lula.

“Yeah,” Lula said, “but I put some thought into which one to get you. I gave you a card for that big liquor store on Liberty Street.”

“I’m heading for the deli,” I said. “The kitchen needs cleaning.”

“We need one of them cleaning services,” Lula said. “You can’t expect a sandwich artist like me to be scrubbing floors. I need to focus my energy in the direction of ham and cheese.”

I wanted to focus my energy in the direction of turning the deli into a pile of smoldering cinders, but that wasn’t going to help me find Wayne Kulicki.

“A cleaning service is a great idea,” I said. “You’re in charge of finding one. In the meantime, someone needs to scrape the grease off the grill and scoop up the dead roaches before we start serving lunch.”

It was nine-thirty when we got to the deli. Stretch was already there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the front door. He stood when he saw me.

“Did I put sauerkraut on a number twenty-two?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And ketchup. You put ketchup on everything, including lemon meringue pie.”

“I thought it needed a splash of color.”

“You were in My Little Pony Land.”