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CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DELI WAS empty by two o’clock. I suspected most of the customers would never return. I did my best, but I was at the bottom of a learning curve. I had mustard in my hair, ketchup on my shirt, my workstation was a mess, and the floor was a health hazard.
“It is a very good thing that Stretch is not here to see this disgrace,” Raymond said. “He would poop himself.”
“Let’s just clean up and move forward,” I said.
I was praying that Stretch would be able to work the dinner shift. The dinner menu included hot sandwiches that involved gravy and melted cheese. This was way beyond my culinary skills.
“The dinner customers will be easier to please,” Raymond said. “You can hide the ugliness of your sandwich making under a generous portion of gravy. They will not know what they are eating.”
“I don’t know how to make gravy,” I said.
“You do not make gravy,” Raymond said. “Gravy comes in five-gallon tubs. You might not have noticed them because the gravy tubs are very similar to the tubs of rice pudding and lard. In fact, once when Stretch was very stoned he gave a woman a dish of lard in place of the rice pudding. It was extremely funny.”
I thought this must be fry-cook humor. And I hoped he never told that story to Lula because she took her rice pudding seriously.
* * *
¦ ¦ ¦
The kitchen was almost clean when Lula and Stretch returned. Stretch had a bandage wrapped around his finger. Lula was carrying a grocery bag.
“We would have got back sooner, but we stopped for turkey and stuff,” Lula said. “How’d lunch go?”
“Lunch was great,” I said. “Easy peasy.”
“Yes,” Raymond said. “I was a frying maniac.”
Dalia rolled her eyes and continued with her floor mopping.
“How bad is your finger?” I asked Stretch.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I just chopped the tip off. They were able to stitch it back on. I’ve done worse.”
“Once he dropped the cleaver on his toe,” Raymond said. “That was a bad time.”
“Are you able to work?” I asked him.
“Cutie pie, if I had a dollar for every time I sliced off part of a finger I’d be a rich man.”
“Okay then,” I said. “I’m going to leave for a while. I’ll be back to help with the dinner trade.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lula said.
“Me too,” Hal said.
I didn’t mind this arrangement because if I got lucky and ran across Victor Waggle, Hal would be useful. He had blond hair styled in a buzz cut, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and enough muscle to stop a freight train. Plus, he could be the wheel man, and I would get to ride in a nice clean Rangeman SUV that gobbled up gas bought by Rangeman.
“Where are we going?” Hal asked.
“The fourth block of Stark Street,” I said. “I want to talk to Martin Kammel.”
“Hey, I know that dude,” Hal said. “He’s lead guitar with Rockin’ Armpits.”
I had a moment of blank brain. Hal knew Rockin’ Armpits.
“I have one of their CDs. I got it signed,” Hal said.
