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“This is going to be tight,” Lula said. “I don’t see how you’re going to drop her off at the courthouse and get back to the deli in time.”
“I’ll stop at the deli first, open the door and make sure everyone gets in, and then we’ll take Gurky to the courthouse.”
“Good thinking,” Lula said. “That’ll work.”
* * *
¦ ¦ ¦
Red River Deli isn’t anywhere near a river. It’s near the train station, next to a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. The gentrification process put in streetlamps that looked like gaslights, and brick-fronted a bunch of row houses and apartment buildings that previously had looked like a slum. The row houses and apartment buildings were gutted and renovated and sold to young professionals who worked in New York and wanted to be close to the train station. Unfortunately, some of the vagrants and gangbangers who roamed the area didn’t get the gentrification memo so from time to time the area could be a little sketchy.
I parked on the street in front of the deli, and Lula and I looked over our shoulders at Annie Gurky in the back seat. Her hands were cuffed in front of her for comfort, and she was slumped over, softly snoring.
“Looks like she’s sleeping off all that orange juice,” Lula said. “Seems a shame to wake her. Maybe we should just crack a window and lock her in.”
“Hey!” I said. “Annie!”
No response.
Two men were standing in front of the deli. One was Caucasian and the other looked Indian subcontinent. They were wearing baggy striped chef’s pants, white chef’s coats, and Red River Deli ball caps turned backward. They were smoking weed and texting.
“Guess those are our chefs,” Lula said. “They look real professional. They got chef suits and everything. Maybe we should put our hats on.”
“Maybe not,” I said.
“Personally, I’m all about being an assistant restaurant manager,” Lula said. “It’s a excellent advancement opportunity. I hope you’re not going to rain on my parade.”
“There is no parade. We know nothing about running a restaurant. We have no experience.”
“That’s not true. I eat in restaurants all the time. And I saw Ratatouille.”
“Ratatouille is a cartoon.”
“Well, I watch other shows too. I used to watch Hell’s Kitchen with that cranky Ramsay guy.”
I got out of the car and Lula followed. I introduced myself and asked the two men if they were our chefs.
“We are very much so,” the smaller man said. “My name is Raymond. I have my green card.”
The other chef was lanky and about six foot tall. He had black hair, a soul patch, and a gold tooth. He looked down at me through a weed haze.
“Stretch,” he said.
“Even I do not know his true name,” Raymond said. “He has always been Stretch.”
I unlocked the front door and told them they couldn’t smoke weed inside.
“This is not a good beginning,” Raymond said. “I’m hoping you do not have more onerous rules we must follow.”
Stretch playfully put his hand on Lula’s boob, and Lula kicked him in the nuts. Stretch doubled over and sucked air.
“Onerous that rule,” Lula said, and she sashayed inside.
The deli consisted of one room with booths lining two walls. Six tables for four were positioned in the middle of the room, and there was counter seating on the far end. The floors were scarred wood. The booths were red leather. Lighting was close to daylight and appropriate for a deli. There was a very slight lingering odor of fried onion rings, but overall it didn’t smell bad. In fact, it smelled good if you were a fan of onion rings.
I walked past the counter seating and entered the kitchen. It was a galley setup with a large pantry to one side. It looked almost clean. I didn’t see any roaches that were sneakers-up. I took that as a good sign.
I looked at a plastic-coated menu. Sandwiches, hot and cold. The usual sides. Standard deli desserts. Nothing complicated. Maybe Lula and I could pull this off.
