Killer Punch (10 page)

“Uh, gosh, I'm not sure,” said the guy. “But come on back to my office, I guess.”

“Sorry I didn't bring you anything,” Bootsie told the receptionist with a fake smile. “You probably don't like avocado and Manchego with tarragon vinaigrette on a baguette anyway.”

“Uh-­huh,” said the girl. “Maybe if you cut down on the baguettes, you'd look better in those shorts.”

“Soooo, bulk shipping, great.” Chad nodded, sitting at a new-­looking desk in an office with an accent wall the color of cabernet and a view of the parking lot, where I could see Sophie getting worked up on her phone call. Chad unwrapped the sandwich, and dug in.

“You like to hang out at Caesar's?” Bootsie asked.

“I deal Texas Hold 'Em in the VIP Poker Lounge three nights a week,” he said through a mouthful of cheese and veggies. “Dealing poker's how I bought my condo and my Porsche. I mean, I love wine and this is a cool day job, but Caesar's is where I really make bank.”

“I love Caesar's!” Bootsie told him, while I wondered if this was true. The Delaney/McElvoy clan does have a gambling streak, and Bootsie and her mom make occasional road trips to the casinos, so I guess they might frequent the place.

Chad looked flattered, and I noticed him checking out Bootsie's tanned tennis-­honed legs. It's funny with Bootsie—­she doesn't get the constant ogling that Holly and Sophie receive, but there's a certain type of guy that loves Bootsie's tomboy sporty quality. As luck would have it, Chad appeared to like what he saw.

“Anyway, Chad, we understand you guys are opening a new store outside Philly, and that falls in my region.”

“That's true, but we have a great deal with FedEx Ground,” Chad told her. “I'd love to help you out, but I don't see you being able to undercut FedEx. And Corporate doesn't run daily operations at the franchises. You'd need to talk to the individual store's owners.”

“I know!” said Bootsie. “And I was all set to do that, until this one”—­here, she poked an elbow in my direction—­“lost the paperwork we had for the new store! She left it in a cab after getting super-­drunk at the Borgata last week.”

I assumed an expression of boozy regret, while Chad looked confused again and kept working his way through his sandwich.

“Who's this?” asked a tough-­looking lady in a dark suit, poking her head and staring suspiciously at me, Bootsie, and Gerda. “Are you from Pack-­N-­Ship?” she said, eyeing Bootsie's shirt logo. “Because Chad isn't authorized to make any changes in shipping.”

“No problem!” said Bootsie, jumping up and thankfully looking ready to go. “We just added some new bulk shipping rates I wanted to make you aware of. Well, we gotta go talk to the purchasing agent at Harrah's.”

“You do that,” said the woman, giving Bootsie a nasty look. “Meeting in two minutes, Chad, in the boardroom.” She took off down the hall.

Bootsie then went spectacularly off-­script. “Chad, I'm gonna tell you the truth. Shipping isn't what we're after here. We're actually from Bryn Mawr, and want the Wine Mart franchise for ourselves!” she whispered.

“Apparently some guy named Barry Tutto is behind the new location, and we need to get hold of him. If you can just give us a copy of the paperwork for the franchise outside Philly, that would be awesome,” she finished. “We want to undercut Tutto and open the store in Bryn Mawr ourselves. And of course we'd want you to come to the opening, and we'll host you for a blowout dinner afterward!”

Chad followed us out. “I can't give you the file here,” he whispered once we were out of earshot of the sour-­faced receptionist. “I mean, I'd love to see you in on the franchise, but I'm gonna need to do the handoff later during my shift at Caesar's and I get a dinner break around seven-­forty-­five. Here's my number. Text me when you get there!”

T
HIRTY MI
NUTES LATER,
Sophie led us into a BCBG store at the Atlantic City outlet mall.

“You can't go to a casino in a tracksuit or shorts,” she told Bootsie and Gerda, which, based on my limited knowledge of casinos, isn't strictly true.

“Kristin is barely squeaking by with that sundress,” Sophie added. “No offense, but I think I saw that one on the clearance rack at Target last week when I was buying a twelve-­pack of toilet paper!”

“You did,” I told her. “That's where I got it.”

“Let me grab a few things for you two to try on,” Sophie told Bootsie, who shrugged, and Gerda, who looked annoyed.

“These dresses not for me,” Gerda told her, casting a doubtful eye at the low-­cut outfits all around us. “I don't do sexy.”

“You'd look super cute in a jumpsuit!” shrieked Sophie, heading for a rack of zip-­up garments.

“I don't do cute,” said Gerda.

Meanwhile, I was wondering about Barclay. He was supposedly in Atlantic City, wasn't he? What if he was at Caesar's for dinner or something when we went to meet Chad? It's not like Bootsie and Gerda, who are both six feet tall, are inconspicuous. And while I've never actually met Barclay, since he was unconscious the first time I encountered him, I'm petrified of him.

“Gerda!” I hissed as she shook her head no at every outfit Sophie took off the racks. “What if we run into Barclay? Won't he be mad if you're not, like, home mowing his lawn or something?”

“I install Find My Friends app on his phone a ­couple months ago,” Gerda said, with evident satisfaction. “I been checking on him all week. He never leave the Borgata, which isn't good 'cause they got a lot of great places to eat there, and Barclay can't resist anything by Wolfgang Puck.”

After some arguing and negotiating, Bootsie decided she was going all-­in, and grabbed the brightest, slinkiest numbers she could find. Forty seconds later, she popped out of the dressing room in an orange bandage dress and strappy heels.

“You look awesome in that!” said a girl with incredibly long black hair to Bootsie. The girl had just emerged from another curtained-­off cubicle in a strapless dress made from scuba material.

Bootsie did look downright fantastic, since all that tennis has left her with seriously toned thighs—­picture the fat-­free legs of the U.S. Women's Soccer Team, and you get the idea.

“Thanks!” said Bootsie, admiring herself in a full-­length mirror. “It's a family trait. All the women in the Delaney family have a great ass.”

“Where are you girls hanging out tonight?” the girl asked Bootsie and Sophie, encompassing our whole group in the question, including Gerda, who was still behind a closed curtain with her jumpsuits. “I see you work at Pack-­N-­Ship from that uniform you had on. You must really need a drink bad if you work there!”

“You know it,” Bootsie told her, yanking on the hem of her dress. “Especially because this one”—­here, she pointed at me—­“works there, too, and she's, like, weeks behind on sorting packages!”

“You should come with me and my friends to Savage Men After Dark! We got a VIP booth for my friend's birthday for the seven o'clock show, and if you kick in thirty dollars each, you'll get a free drink and a guaranteed table visit from the dancers!”

“What's Savage Men After Dark?” I asked, mental alarm bells going off, but Bootsie and Sophie were already peeling twenties out of their wallets.

The girl, who told us her name was Mindy, explained she'd gotten ten half-­price tickets from a friend at Caesar's, and it was going to be super-­fun. She handed over the tickets and drink vouchers as Gerda grimly emerged from her curtained cubicle in a black sleeveless jumpsuit, and balked at changing her sneakers for the leopard pumps that Sophie had selected for her.

“Sneakers are okay for casinos,” Gerda said, as we gazed down at the tickets from Mindy, which were emblazoned with black and white photos that confirmed my worst fears. Savage Men was just what it sounded like: shirtless guys in tear-­away tracksuits and trench coats. “Come on, Gerda!” shrieked Sophie. “The jumpsuit and heels are on me.”

T
WO HO
URS LATER,
Bootsie, Sophie, Mindy, and her friends were on their third drink while I sipped a single glass of wine, waiting desperately for Chad the poker dealer's text on Bootsie's phone, which I'd stuck right in front of me on the table. Gerda was only drinking seltzer, but seemed to be enjoying the spectacle before us.

Bootsie's attention issues had kicked in big-­time thanks to the flashing strobe lights and muscled-­up guys on stage, so I kept one eye on the screen and the other on the muscles and spray tans. Finally, a text popped up at seven-­forty-­five.

“Chad says he'll be in the Toga Bar in five minutes,” I told Bootsie, who thankfully threw her last handful of dollar bills at a guy onstage who'd just torn off his pants.

“We gotta go,” she told Mindy, and exchanged group hugs with the other three girls at the table, along with phone numbers and promises to get together again soon.

At the Toga Bar, Chad was in a booth with a mojito in hand.

“This never happened!” he told us as he handed over the file, with a tipsy edge in his voice that had me worried about his ability to deal out six more hours of Texas Hold 'Em. Was he permitted to drink at work?

“By the way, you look great in that dress!” he added to Bootsie, who was buying Chad another cocktail when Sophie gave a happy little scream.

“Lobster Phil!” shrieked Sophie. “Look, he's sitting right there waving to us. It's another sign!”

 

Chapter 16

P
HIL WAS
ENJOYING
his namesake dish, grilled and topped with butter and crabmeat, at a swanky eatery just off the gaming floor, and he gallantly rose and invited us all to sit down.

“I go to ladies' room,” said Gerda, heading off into the crowded lobby.

“You girls hungry?” he asked. “I'll order a few more lobsters.”

Bootsie was about to enthusiastically agree when my phone rang.

“How many dogs are there supposed to be at your house?” Joe said dispiritedly. “I opened the door, and it was like one hundred dogs busted free. They're all over your yard, barking and running.”

“There are four!” I told him. “Four dogs, plus Waffles, which is five! You didn't leave Waffles at the store, did you?”

“No, I brought him back to your house,” Joe told me, sounding aggrieved. “He's here somewhere. By the way, he drooled all over my custom Valcona leather interior, and I'm not sure my Audi will ever be the same again.”

“We need to go, but thanks for offering to buy us dinner,” I told Phil.

“Is that my Honey Bunny?” said Sophie, forgetting she was mad at Joe.

“Okay,” I heard Joe mumble. “I count five dogs. They're all back in the house now. I'm throwing down some kibble and running out the door.” I hung up.

“Too bad you're leaving,” said Phil. “I just got done a bunch of meetings over at the Borgata. What brings you ladies to A.C., anyway?”

Sophie explained that we'd driven over from Pennsylvania because a new wine store was opening, and it was real upsetting for ­people who wanted to save the forest currently located where the huge store was going to be built. But, she added, a lot of ­people were super-­excited about free wine and cheese nights to be held there on Thursdays and Saturdays.

Lobster Phil sat up straighter. “What's this place called?”

“It was supposed to be a real tiny shop called Maison de Booze, but it turns out it's a Mega Wine Mart,” Sophie said.

“I'm intrigued,” said Phil, leaning back and folding up his napkin. “You know what, Sophie, I think I
am
gonna come check out this cute town you live in. I'll drive over tomorrow, and you can show me the site for the Mega Wine store.”

“Sure!” she said. “I'd love to show ya around. You can check out Gianni's fancy restaurant, too.”

“I wouldn't miss it,” said Phil thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the table and beckoning a waiter to remove his plate. “You gals ever hear any more about the painting that got stolen from your friend?”

“I'm eighty-­seven percent sure it was stolen by Chef Gianni Brunello, who then dropped it at a Pack-­N-­Ship store to be mailed to his new restaurant in L.A.,” Bootsie told him.

“Gianni might have stolen it?” Phil said, interested. “You can't put anything past that guy. Always was up to no good, even when the two of us had our restaurants in our Jersey days.”

Just then, Gerda returned, and I jumped up to leave.

“Sophie, I hate you right now for this jumpsuit,” she announced. “You ever try to go to bathroom in one of these?”

S
INCE N
O ONE
else except Gerda was sober, and she doesn't have a license, I steered Bootsie's Range Rover toward Bryn Mawr on the Atlantic City Expressway. Bootsie examined the file from Chad, which wasn't easy in the dim reading light in the passenger seat, while Gerda and Sophie complained being squashed in the back between all the L.L. Bean goods still stuffed into the SUV.

Bootsie tipsily leafed through the half-­inch-­thick Mega Wine Mart file on the upcoming Bryn Mawr franchise.

“The owners have to be named in here somewhere,” she said. “Articles of Incorporation; Brand Continuity; Approved Suppliers—­the reading light in this car sucks, I can barely see anything—­Fees and Royalties . . . here's something. There's a BT Development listed, but there's no contact info for him other than a law firm in Miami. There's nothing in here about who this Tutto guy is!”

Her phone rang, and she Bluetoothed the call into the car's fancy sound system.

“Did you find out anything about the Mega Wine Mart?” Holly asked.

“We struck out,” admitted Bootsie.

“Uh-­huh,” said Holly, not sounding all that surprised. “Anyway, I've almost recovered from my three months of dealing with Eula, so I need a project, plus thanks to Kristin, I finally received seventeen boxes of clothes and shoes that she found in the back room at the Pack-­N-­Ship.”

“Ooh, I want to come see what ya got!” said Sophie.

“Anyhoo, I can't stop wondering if Honey's painting was in that box you saw yesterday headed to California,” Holly said, a slightly manic edge in her voice that I know all too well and usually precedes either shopping or Internet stalking to make sure her husband isn't cheating.

Once a year or so, Holly bands together with Bootsie and Gerda on one of their investigative boondoggles. Sometimes this trio gets results, or they find themselves being faced down by an angry wife who shows up, screams at them, and drags her husband away—­which happened last winter at a lounge called Tiki Joe's in Florida.

“So I'm heading over to Gianni's restaurant right now to get him liquored up and find out if he knows about the box,” Holly told us.

“Count me in!” said Sophie. “Joe's text mentioned an all-­nighter at Kristin's store, which he said is, like, a fiasco, decor-­wise.”

“I go, too, to Gianni's,” announced Gerda. “Gianni a real hands-­y guy. No girl safe with him.”

“Um, I have five dogs at my house, so I probably shouldn't come,” I told the group, desperate for the day to end. “You've got this plan under control,” I added encouragingly.

“Gerda and I will swing by your house and pick ya up after you feed all those dogs!” said Sophie.

“You guys don't need me for this!” I told Sophie. “Holly and Gerda have a special technique for information gathering. They're like a dream team!”

Sophie's huge brown eyes welled up with tears.

“I need my friends around me.” She sniffed. “I'm in crisis. If Joe won't even look at the
Town & Country
jewelry ads, how are we going to get engaged? Plus my ex is trying to take my new house and all my shoes. And I hate being alone. I get real depressed!”

“Okay,” I agreed hastily. “We're almost back at The Striped Awning. Everyone can get their own cars and then you and Gerda can pick me up in twenty minutes at my house. But I refuse to stay later than eleven at Gianni's!”

“I'll get what I need from him by ten-­forty-­five,” said Holly, and hung up.