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“Okay,” I said to Raymond and Stretch. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing here. Lula and I will check back around noon.”
“Whoa, not so fast,” Stretch said. “What about the deliveries?”
“What about them?”
“You have to take inventory and schedule them. Then you have to make sure we get the right stuff on time. And you have to arrange for payment.”
“You don’t do that?”
“I make sandwiches, Cookie Puss.”
I looked over at Raymond. “What about him?”
“He’s the fry guy.”
“Who did it yesterday?” I asked.
“No one,” Stretch said. “So, we’re up shit’s creek today. We had a manager, but he disappeared. Went out for a break two days ago and never came back. He’s the third manager in two weeks to disappear.”
“And we always find one shoe,” Raymond said. “One manager shoe by the dumpster, but no manager.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“Oh yes,” Raymond said. “They have been fully informed. They said it is a great mystery.”
“I’m glad I’m not the new manager,” Lula said to me. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes . . . especially since sometime soon he could be left with only one. I would hate that. I take my shoes seriously.”
“I’m the new manager,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” Lula said. “I forgot for a minute. Bummer. On the other hand, you could see the bright side and think this might be like Cinderella. She left a shoe behind and look how good it turned out for her.”
“I can’t take inventory right now,” I told Stretch. “You’re going to have to do it. Order whatever you need. I’ll be back before you open at noon.”
“I need a raise,” Stretch said. “Can I order that?”
Lula and I walked out of the deli and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Where did we park the car?” Lula asked.
“Here,” I said. “We parked it right here in front of the deli.”
“I don’t usually like to jump to conclusions, but
I think someone stole your car,” Lula said. “It might have been that Annie Gurky. She could have woke up and needed more orange juice.”
That would be the best-case scenario. The worst would be that some thug took the car with Annie Gurky in it. I hauled my cellphone out of my bag and placed a call.
There are two men in my life. Joe Morelli is a Trenton cop who works plainclothes in crimes against persons. Morelli and I have a long history together that includes being engaged and not being engaged and several times almost being engaged. He has a nice little house on Slater Street that he inherited from his Aunt Rose. He has a big orange dog, two brothers, two sisters, and a crazy grandmother named Bella. He’s also totally sexy in an Italian movie star, homicide detective kind of way. The other guy is Ricardo Carlos Manoso, better known as Ranger. He’s Latino. He’s former Special Forces. He’s hot. He owns Rangeman, a high-end security business operating out of a high-tech, low-profile building in downtown Trenton. And he’s dedicated to keeping me alive and in sight. His motives aren’t entirely altruistic.
“Are you calling the cops?” Lula asked.
“No. I’m calling Ranger. It’s the fastest way to find my car.”
CHAPTER THREE
RANGER ATTACHES TRACKING devices to my cars. It was initially annoying, but I’ve gotten used to it, and in all honesty, it’s come in handy on occasions like this.
“Babe,” Ranger said.
