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“I hate this plant,” Stan said. “I hate this second-rate ice cream. I hate every shitty Bogart Bar that was ever made. And I especially hate Harry fucking Bogart.”
“I hear you,” Butchy said, “but you should chill. You want a joint?”
“I need more than a joint,” Stan said.
“I got some of that too,” Butchy said.
Stan wheeled around and marched back into the building.
“Someone should go after him and make sure he doesn’t do more shooting,” I said.
“He’ll be okay,” Butchy said. “He just had to do some venting. And besides, he emptied his clip.” Butchy lit up. “I guess you gotta take the truck out,” he said to me.
“No way.”
“Somebody’s gotta do it.”
“Not going to be me,” I said. “I’m not getting into the clown suit. I’m not smearing the greasepaint on my nose. I’m not driving the truck. Suppose he decides to shoot up the truck again with me in it? And anyway last time I went out in a Jolly Bogart truck it got blown up.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t in it, so it’s all good, right?”
“You take the truck out.”
“I can’t. I’m the foreman. I gotta stay here.”
“I’ll be the foreman.”
&
nbsp; “It don’t work that way. Mr. Bogart gotta make you the foreman. And anyway you’d be the foregirl. Haw! Foregirl. Who ever heard of a foregirl?”
“Okay. Fine. I’ll take the stupid truck out, but I’m not wearing the clown suit.”
“I don’t give a fig about the clown suit,” Butchy said. “Personally it always scared the holy whatever out of me.”
I tossed the remaining ice cream into the truck, got my messenger bag out of my locker, stomped back to the loading dock, and climbed behind the wheel. I turned the key, and the engine sputtered and cranked over.
“I’m not happy,” I said to Butchy. “I’m totally not happy.”
I stomped on the gas, and the truck jerked forward. I drove out of the parking lot and headed for the first neighborhood. After a couple miles the truck coughed and died. I thunked my head on the steering wheel. “Why me?”
I got out and looked at the truck. It was leaking something. Déjà vu. The story of my life. I called Lula and asked her to pick me up. I ate a Bogart Bar while I waited, and I called Ranger and gave him a recap.
“They recommissioned an old Jolly Bogart truck,” I said. “Stan Ducker went nuts when he saw it. He emptied a clip into it and stormed off. I got stuck taking the truck out, and it broke down after a couple miles. Lula’s coming to get me, but someone needs to get the truck. I don’t have any numbers associated with Bogart, so I’m calling you.”
“Lucky me,” Ranger said.
I gave him the address, disconnected, and helped myself to another Bogart Bar. Ten minutes later Lula pulled up next to the truck.
“This here truck is full of bullet holes,” Lula said.
“It had a hard morning.”
“Do you got Bogart Bars?”
“I have a truck filled with them.”
“I’ll take two. It’s almost lunchtime and I don’t mind starting with dessert.”
