Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(70)

Carl shrugged. “Were there a lot of cookies in the tin?”

“Yes.”

“Bummer.”

I got Darren into the house, and Mrs. Boot helped me stretch him out on the couch. A chicken immediately jumped up and settled itself on Darren’s chest.

“That’s Bobby Sunflower,” Mrs. Boot said. “She’s a cuddler.”

“Darren ate some cookies that might not have agreed with him,” I told Mrs. Boot.

“He has a sensitive stomach,” Mrs. Boot said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay if he just rests a little.”

Carl was standing at the front door. “There’s a lot of chickens in here,” he said. “A lot of chickens.”

“I don’t feel good,” Darren said, “but I don’t care. Sometimes you have to feel bad to feel good. Have you ever noticed that?”

“Can you OD on cookies?” I asked Carl.

“Doubtful,” he said. “And he lost half of them.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to drive the food truck?”

“Doubtful again.”

“Maybe you could drive it,” Mrs. Boot said to Carl.

“I’d like to help, but I’m going off duty at seven o’clock, and I have to be back at Rangeman.”

“Is someone coming to replace you?” I asked.

“Jamil.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He’s good, but he’s a city boy. He might not be comfortable with the chickens.”

“Tell him to pick Lula up on the way and bring her here.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


THE FOOD TRUCK was packed with eggs and ready to go by seven o’clock, but it was without a driver. Darren was alternately dozing, rushing to the bathroom, or ranting nonsense. Mrs. Boot didn’t have a license and didn’t know how to drive the truck.

Lula and Jamil were parked next to Carl’s SUV. They’d made a couple feeble attempts to get to the house, but had been beaten back by the chickens.

“Darren would be setting out right about now,” Mrs. Boot said. “There’s traffic when you get up close to the street fair, and if the truck isn’t in its assigned spot by eight o’clock the spot will get given away.”

I’d contacted Ranger and Morelli when I was at the courthouse and arranged for undercover men to be positioned around the food truck. If the food truck didn’t show up, the men would still be on location to take down Waggle, but it might be messy. The food truck would make it clean.

I went out back with Mrs. Boot and looked at the truck. It was old, but it seemed straightforward. It didn’t have eighteen gears and double clutches. It had the basics. Steering wheel. Brake pedal. Gas pedal. Recognizable gear shift.

“I guess I could try this,” I said.

“I can go along and help,” Mrs. Boot said. “I usually go with Darren.”

The last thing I wanted was Darren’s mom caught in the middle of a police operation.

“I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on Darren,” I said. “Lula will be there to help me.”

I got a ten-minute crash course in burrito making food truck style, and an additional five minutes of parking instruction. I climbed into the truck and got behind the wheel.

“Drive carefully,” Mrs. Boot said. “Try not to break too many eggs. If you follow the driveway through the tall grass, it’ll take you out to the road a short distance from where your friends are parked.”

The engine caught on the second try. I was cautious on the gas and eased the truck along the crude dirt driveway. I followed the ruts through the grass and stopped holding my breath when I reached the road. I met up with the two Rangeman SUVs, and Lula transferred over to the food truck.

“We’re back in the food business,” I said to Lula.

“It was meant to be. It’s an act of God.”

It didn’t seem right to pin this fiasco on God, but I guess at the end of the day, he was the bottom-line guy. Or girl. Or gender-neutral entity.

I crept along the road, past the junkyard and the high-rent parking area. I followed Mrs. Boot’s instructions and looked for the food truck entrance.

“This is real organized,” Lula said. “Someone’s put some thought to this. It’s got professional-made signs, and the gang members aren’t killing each other. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it’s still early.”

Jamil left me at the truck entrance, and my safety was transferred over to the Rangeman contingent on the inside. I handed an envelope filled with cash to the gate master, and in return I received a location number. I slowly rumbled along with my eggs and tortillas and stacks of fry pans.

“Here we go,” Lula said. “Number fourteen.”

I got the truck into position, and I opened the canopy. “How are we going to do this?” Lula asked. “I didn’t make burritos at the deli.”

“We have a big griddle, six burners, and a warming oven. Darren’s mom said it’s up to us how we want to cook stuff. Darren puts everything on the griddle, but his mom likes to use the fry pans. The refried beans are in the slow cooker. There are more cans of them underneath the counter. There’s only one thing on the menu, and it’s always made the same unless someone doesn’t want beans. This is a bare-bones burrito. You take a warm tortilla, you use this measuring cup to add scrambled eggs, you glop on some beans, and you squirt the magic secret hot sauce all over the eggs. Darren’s mom says it’s fresh eggs and hot sauce that keeps them coming back for more. There are a bunch of squeeze bottles of hot sauce next to the slow cooker.”