“Do I get a bonus?”
He grinned and kissed me on the top of my head. “Yeah. You’ll get a bonus.”
I had a pretty good idea about the nature of the bonus.
“How much?” I asked him.
“It’ll be priceless.”
“Oh boy.”
We were standing in the hallway that led to the manufacturing plant. Ranger pushed me against the wall and leaned in. “Would you like to know the details?”
There was no space between us. I could feel him pressed into me. His lips skimmed the rim of my ear when he asked the question, and I felt the rush of heat buzz in my brain and flash through every part of me. The heat curled into my hoo-ha with a spasm that was a blink away from an orgasm.
He kissed me, and our tongues touched. The kiss deepened, his hand caressed my breast, and my hand went south on him in search of the bonus.
Somewhere far off a door opened and closed, and we both paused. It was the night guard making one of his rounds.
I guess I should be grateful. I might have been condemned to hell if it had gone any further. It was one thing to have a relationship with two men. It was a totally other thing to have them simultaneously.
I looked around. “So is there anything else to see?”
“Not tonight,” Ranger said.
EIGHT
IT WAS AFTER one o’clock when I crawled into bed with mixed emotions about the next day. I wanted to rush in and root out the killer, and at the same time I felt completely incompetent at doing the job. I set my alarm for seven o’clock, giving me a half hour to shower and whatever, and a half hour to drive to the ice creamery.
The alarm went off, and I hit the snooze button and pulled the pillow over my head. Five minutes later the alarm went off again, and I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.
I wasn’t sure what one wore to work in an ice cream factory, so I dressed in my standard uniform of jeans, a red short-sleeved V-neck jersey, and running shoes. I scarfed down a cold meatball sandwich for breakfast and poured my coffee into a to-go mug. As I chugged out of the parking lot, I got a phone call from Lula.
“Are you there yet?” she asked. “What kind of job did you get?”
“I just got on the road. I don’t have to be there until eight o’clock.”
“Well, you better hurry. You don’t want to be late on your first day. People hate that.”
“Are you at the office?”
“Hell, no. I’m in my closet deciding on who I want to be today. I mean, I’m always Lula, but I got a multifaceted personality.”
“Talk to you later,” I said. And I hung up.
I drove two blocks, and I got a call from Morelli.
“Big day today,” he said.
“How so?”
“You have a new job. Are you on your way to the ice cream factory?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Are you?”
“Not at the moment,” Morelli said.
“Do you have any news on the Bogart Bar man?”
“Nothing interesting. It would help if we could find Virgil. Maybe you could keep your eyes open for him.”
“In my spare time.”
“Boy, you’re cranky today. Probably because you didn’t see me last night.”
“How was the poker game?”
“I lost my shirt. I think Anthony cheats.”
Morelli’s brother, Anthony, cheats on everything, including his wife. Aside from that one major character flaw he’s a fun guy.
“If you ask me nice I might come over for dinner tonight,” Morelli said.
“Sure. Hot dogs?”
“I heard you got meatballs at Giovichinni’s.”
“I ate them for breakfast.”
“I’ll bring dinner,” Morelli said.
“Deal. I have to go now. I have to concentrate on my driving.”
Mostly what I had to do was whip up some enthusiasm for Harry Bogart ice cream.
By the time I walked through the front door and up to the receptionist I had almost convinced myself I could do the job. I could learn how to make ice cream. I could mingle. And maybe I could find the killer.
“I’m Stephanie Plum,” I told the woman behind the desk. “The employment office is expecting me.”
“The employment office is in a bit of disarray,” the woman said, “but Mr. Bogart will personally speak with you. He’s in his office just down the hall. Go through the double doors and turn left.”
Okay, I told myself. I get to meet Mr. Ice Cream. I get to talk to the inventor of the Bogart Bar. It could be cool, right?
I walked the hall and came to the little gold plaque on the wall that said “Harry Bogart.” The door was open so I peeked in at the man behind the massive oak desk.
“Hell-o-o-o,” I said. “Knock, knock.”
“For God’s sake just come on in,” Harry Bogart said. “Who the hell are you?”
“Stephanie Plum.”
“Who?”
“I work for Rangeman. I’m supposed to assume a job on the floor so I can look around at your operation.”
Harry Bogart was a big man. Big blockhead with buzz-cut gray hair. Close-set blue eyes, bushy gray eyebrows, ruddy cheeks, thick lips, jowls. Not entirely attractive. I guessed he might be six feet tall and about fifty pounds overweight. He was wearing a tan suit, white dress shirt, brown-and-blue-striped tie. He fit the suit like an overstuffed sausage.
“You don’t look like much,” Bogart said to me. “Is this how you come to a job interview? Do you smoke dope?”
I told myself to keep thinking about the bonus and how I was going to avenge the sullying of the Bogart Bar. Telling Bogart he was a bloated ass was pointless, since he undoubtedly already knew this.
“It wasn’t my understanding that this was an interview,” I said, giving him my best kiss-up smile. “I was told I would be working on the floor.”
“I don’t want you talking to anyone. If anyone even suspects you’re a snitch you’re out of here.”
I felt my eyes involuntarily narrow and knew it wasn’t doing a lot for the smile still plastered to my face.
“Maybe you want to review this plan with Ranger,” I told Bogart.
Bogart leaned forward and squinted at me. “What’s with the black? Why is he always wearing black?”
“It’s easy. Everything matches.”
“That’s nuts. What the hell’s wrong with him? Even his underwear?”
“Getting back to your security problem,” I said.
“Someone’s out to get me,” Bogart said. “I think it’s that skunk Morris.”
“Do you think he killed your human resources man?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s sneaky. Always looking like such a goody-goody do-gooder, but you turn your back on him and he’s a sneak.”
“Okay.”
I looked around the office. It was a cluttered mess. Stacks of files and magazines. Bowling trophies. Photographs on every surface. Harry Bogart with kids, dogs, politicians, and a monkey eating ice cream.
“Am I supposed to be working now?” I asked him.
He pressed a button on his multiline phone and yelled at it. “Kathy!”
A moment later a fifty-something woman stuck her head in the open door to Bogart’s office. “Yes?” she asked.
Bogart gestured at me. “This is what’s-her-name. She’s going to be working the line. Get her suited up and take her to Jim.”
There was the sound of activity in the hall, and the receptionist and Lula shoved themselves past Kathy and stumbled into the room.
“I tried to stop her,” the receptionist said to Bogart.
“This receptionist woman don’t know nothing about political correctness,” Lula said to Bogart. “She didn’t want me to come in here because I’m a black woman of a certain size.”
“I didn’t want you to come in because you don’t have an appointment,” the receptionist said.
“Yeah, but you prejudged me,” Lula said. “And anyways, I do have an appointment. I’m with Stephanie.”
“Who’s Stephanie?” Bogart asked.
“I’m Stephanie,” I told him.
“That’s right,” Lula said. “And I’m with her. We’re a team.”
“I don’t know anything about a team,” Bogart said. “I wasn’t told about this.”
“Well, lucky you,” Lula said. “You get the two of us. In my former profession as a ’ho it was considered a treat to get two women.”
Bogart’s ruddy cheeks had turned purple, and it seemed to me he was having difficulty breathing.