Spiedies Disaster
Several hours later…
The News hadn’t seen a more gruesome scene since the days of Tiny’s father.
They’d laid the victims out on two trays on the counter in the kitchen. Soggy bread bits went on one tray, cut and skewered cubes of marinated meat on the other.
Spiedies. Six of them.
“After my tire was fixed, I got the bright idea to get spiedies to make up for it,” Late was downtrodden. “I wasn’t thinking. I put the bag of ice I bought to keep them fresh on the top of the box, and it melted. They sat in a puddle.”
Tiny leaned over the deli counter from the floor, looking at the carnage. “The bread’s mush. Done in for sure.”
“Hear me out,” It was the Kid who had the plan. “Bread’s easy. Throw it out. We’ve got rolls in the store. I’ll butter, season, and toast them.”
Tiny nodded, in agreement. “Go on, Kiddo.” He licked his lips.
Kid held up a skewer of chicken and lamb. “No grill back here, but if we broil the water out, toss them in olive oil, rosemary, and thyme, then broil again?”
“Definitely thyme in whatever this place was using,” Jerk had sniffed them up close, he wasn’t proud.
“Not sure that’s traditional?” Tiny’s face said he wasn’t sure. He knew more about Melba sauce with mozzarella sticks.
“This was a small chain that had their own recipe and was proud of it, it was near Sar—” Late cut himself off. “Near a friend’s place.”
Jerk and Tiny exchanged a glance.
“Kid’s got the right idea.” A customer had come in and Tiny was retreating to the counter.
“I’m not sure how the skewer and rolls fit with serving?” Kid held up another skewer, beef and lamb, perplexed.
“I think you pull them out when they’re in the rolls, but you can just pull them before you cook if that’s easier.” He gestured at the grocery floor. “Grab anything you need.”
Jerk heard Tiny finish checking the customer out. He grabbed Late’s arm and pulled him out, letting Kid work on the recovery effort.
“Did you say Sarah? Sarah Ann McGuire’s out of prison?” Jerk asked as he pulled a protesting Late over to the checkout.
“Ow! Yeah, I…” Late rubbed his neck and looked away. “She finally got parole, and I got the bug to visit her.” They’d been pen pals for ten years. Jerk had the scars to prove it.
“She murdered people,” Tiny said, the memory clear. “Husband. In-laws. Cold blood. It was all over the news.” Tiny looked at Jerk. “Did he tell you that she used an ice pick?”
“It was not cold blood. She was railroaded. He was… he was doing bad things, Tiny. Them too.”
Late was only 15 when he answered an ad in the weekly looking for a pen pal. She didn’t realize he was a kid young enough to be her grandson until after he’d turned 18. He didn’t know she’d committed triple homicide until he was 20.
“So did you two…?” Tiny’s question hung, verblessly. He looked right at Late. Late turned a shade of red Jerk hadn’t seen before.
“We… She’s a nice lady!” Late stalked off to restock the cooler. Jerk assessed they’d done the deed.
Tiny’s voice dropped, lower than the rumble of the bus idling on Fourth. “This Kid. Made out of rubber or something?” Tiny looked back at the deli counter. “You mopped their guts off the floor last night, and now they’re running around like Mr Food?”
Why yes, Tiny. Jerk had done a better job than normal with that particular mess. Thank you for noticing.
“Crashed for a couple of hours and then was back up and restless,” Jerk was the same way. Tiny too. “You’re paying Kid, right? Because they consider The Squat payment and—” Jerk looked right at Tiny, eye contact he didn’t usually like to make “—Squat’s mine. You pay Kid separately.”
It was Tiny who looked away. He spit under his breath. “Blackmailer.” Jerk had learned from a master.
Tiny cleared his throat. “Federal minimum, cash,” he said. “Same as you, same as Late, same as the other putzes you’ve brought in here. Paperwork in January if they decide they’re paying taxes.” Tiny made some lies other people’s responsibility.
The smell out of the kitchen was mouth-watering already, and Jerk saw Kid run out to Aisle A and grab the bread.
“You have to tell Kid the Golden Rule.” Tiny said, letting the pause stretch. It was Jerk’s job to say it aloud.
“No crimes on the clock.”