MONDAY MORNING I presented myself at the ice cream factory and was assigned to the floor. I was back at the cup dropper and filler machine. I felt comfortable doing this since it had a big red button.
Three Rangeman techs were on the floor adjusting and programming the newly installed cameras. Their purpose was to keep everyone safe, but I suspected their presence was a constant reminder of danger.
I was relieved at ten-thirty, and I went to the break room for coffee. Three women were at one table, and two were at another. I didn’t know any of them. No one looked up and invited me to join them. The atmosphere in the room was subdued. Two murders and an explosion were taking a toll. Things were no longer so jolly. I got coffee and a candy bar and sat by myself. I didn’t want to intrude on the women, and I didn’t think they would tell me anything useful.
Bogart’s assistant, Kathy, found me and told me I was being reassigned to the loading dock. A truck needed loading and they were short a man.
I stripped off my yellow floor outfit and stuffed it into my locker, checked my email, grabbed my sweatshirt, and made my way to the loading dock.
Butchy was packing a small truck with shrink-wrapped orders of assorted ice cream. He stopped packing and ambled over when he saw me.
“I’m guessing you’re my helper,” he said. “Play your cards right and you might get to be foreman, being that I don’t want this job.”
“Why don’t you want the job?”
“Too much work. I’m an easygoing guy. I’m a responsibility shirker.”
“But for now you’re the foreman?”
“Looks that way. I got Noodles helping me load this truck, and when it gets loaded there’s a big rig coming in. Meantime, I need someone to load the Jolly junker over there by the guardhouse.”
I looked toward the guardhouse and saw the old, rust-riddled, faded-glory Jolly Bogart truck.
“We pulled her out of retirement,” Butchy said. “Bogart had her sitting on a hill looking out at Route 1 for the past ten years. Like an antique billboard. We put a new battery in her, and damned if she doesn’t still run. There were some squirrels living in her, but we cleaned it all up except for the one seat that’s a little chewed.”
“Who’s driving it?”
“Stan’s driving it.”
“Does he know this?”
“I didn’t talk to him personally, but someone told him to come to work, so I guess he got it figured out.”
Oh boy.
“Anyway,” Butchy said. “We gotta get the old girl filled with Kidz Kups and Bogart Bars.”
“I’m not going to get locked in the freezer, am I?”
“Hard to tell around here what’s gonna happen next.”
I grabbed the hand truck and pushed it down the hall to the freezer. I punched the code in, and propped the door open with the hand truck. A lot of frigid air was rushing out of the freezer, but I didn’t care. I was taking precautions. I loaded the hand truck and exited the freezer. The door closed with a click behind me, and I gave an involuntary shudder.
I had the Jolly truck almost filled when Stan burst out of the loading dock door. He wasn’t in his clown suit, but his nose was bright red and his hair was every which way. He was waving his arms, and his eyes were bugged out of his head.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” he yelled. “Goddamn, motherfucker, holy shit, and fuck me. Where is it? Where’s the piece-of-shit truck they dragged out of hell to make my life an even worse misery?”
“By the guardhouse,” Butchy said. “How come you’re not in your clown suit?”
“I’ve been reasonable about this,” Stan said. “I went out and did my job while I patiently waited. Well, no more. The gloves are off. No more jolly, jolly, jolly. You want to see jolly? Jolly fucking this!”
He pulled a gun, I ducked behind the guardhouse, and he fired off about fifteen rounds at the truck.
“That’s whack-a-doodle,” Butchy said to Stan when he stopped shooting.
“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.”
“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.”
I gave Lula the Bogart Bars, and we waited until the tow truck showed up. I handed over the keys and abandoned the Jolly Bogart truck.
“It’s sad to see a broken-down ice cream truck full of bullet holes,” Lula said. “What’s this country coming to?”
I retrieved my car from the Bogart lot and followed Lula back to the bonds office.
“I ordered pizza on my way here,” she said. “It should get delivered any minute now. I got a extra-large pie with the works, and I got a extra-large pie with extra cheese. I’m celebrating because I expect to hear from the Naked and Afraid people today. I could be catapulted to instant fame on that show. It’s a highly rated show.”
I pulled a chair up to Connie’s desk, took Stan Ducker’s file out of my bag, and read through it one more time. There was nothing to indicate he was batshit crazy. I suspected it was the Jolly jingle. A person could only take so much of the Jolly jingle. After a week of working as the Jolly Bogart clown I’d probably empty a clip into the truck too.