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Butchy looked at his watch. “Half hour.”
Jolly blew out a sigh, and his shoulders slumped. “This is gonna mean an extra fifteen minutes in the clown suit. Could it get any worse?”
“The clown suit looks comfortable,” I said.
“Right,” Jolly said. “Nice and baggy. Gives my boys room to breathe, which is a good thing because the only fun they have is knocking against each other. You know what it’s like to try to get laid when you’re a clown? It’s not easy. The greasepaint won’t come off my nose. I glow in the dark. And you know what I gotta do all day? Smile at the rotten, smelly, snot-nosed little kids. I hate kids.”
“Why don’t you get another job?”
“Lady, I’ve been a clown for twelve years. You think I’m going to get hired to do brain surgery?”
“At least you’re not a Bogart Bar,” Butchy said. “Haw.”
Jolly grinned. “True. That honor went to Zigler. It brightened my day a little. Someone looked more ridiculous than me. It’s a shame there wasn’t a picture in the paper. That part was a disappointment.”
Gus pushed a loaded dolly through the hall door. “Someone give me a hand getting this down the ramp.”
Butchy and I helped Gus, and Jolly followed. We wrangled the dolly up next to the Jolly Bogart truck, and packed the truck with Bogart Kidz Kups and Bogart Bars. Jolly got behind the wheel and drove off.
“You might as well take an early lunch,” Gus said to Butchy and me. “We have a truck coming in at one.”
• • •
Butchy went off to take a nap in his tricked-out F-450 pickup, and I went to the deserted break room. I got coffee and ate my sandwich while I looked through the employee files Ranger had copied for me. There were five in total.
PeeWee Stutz had been accused of sexual harassment six months ago. He’d received a warning and been referred to group counseling. That seemed to be the end of it.
Maureen Gooley had a long history of lunchroom altercations. She worked on the floor and was fired three weeks ago after she sucker-punched Lucinda Keever. Maureen was sixty-three years old and was rumored to have a drinking problem.
Stan Ducker had the thickest file of all. It was filled with requests to transfer. Job description simply said “Truck driver.” I read further and realized this was the Jolly Bogart clown. Each request was very neatly stamped “Declined.” No other explanation given. It seemed odd that you would turn the Jolly Bogart truck over to someone who hated kids. Maybe once Stan got out on the road and rolling he perked up.
Sylvia Mook also had a file filled with requests to transfer. She was working on the floor and wanted an office job. She’d been at the plant for five years.
Maria Ortiz was unhappy with the machines in the break room. She wanted Coke, and only Pepsi was offered. She also didn’t like the brand of toilet paper in the ladies’ room. She thought there should be assigned parking in the lot so you could find your car more easily. She worried about the air quality throughout the plant. And she wanted a transfer from the housekeeping crew to a job on the floor. There were seven requests for transfer. All neatly stamped “Declined.”
I used my phone to check my email. I called Morelli but got his voicemail. I glanced over at the vending machines. Maybe I needed to treat myself to a giant Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Peanut butter is healthy, right?
I was scrounging in my bag, looking for loose change, when a text message came in from Ranger telling me my snooping days were over. I’d been recognized and reported to Bogart, and Bogart
wanted me out of the plant.
Thank God. I wanted to find the man who’d murdered Arnold Zigler and the Bogart Bar. I truly did. And I wanted to do a good job for Ranger. But Jeez Louise I hated working the line and the loading dock.
I shoved the files back into my messenger bag, tossed my trash, said adios to the break room, and headed for my car.
TWELVE
IT WAS ALMOST noon when I walked into the bonds office. Lula was on the fake leather couch with her laptop. No Connie.
“What’s up?” Lula asked.
“I got outted. Someone recognized me, and Bogart gave me the heave-ho.”
“Did you get any ice cream?”
“No.”
“Bummer. Next time you need to negotiate a better deal. You should have had one of them golden umbrellas.”
