Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (12 page)

The
fire person held up a bullhorn and attempted to make some semblance of the
carnage.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that your offices will need to be
shut down for the remainder of the day,” he said.  A few hundred employees from
various businesses cheered and texted ferociously, while their supervisors cast
accusatory glances and took mental notes.  He went on, “I’ve met with the
managers from each floor. With the exception of EEJIT,” he added a bit
tersely.  Bauser and I exchanged cringes. We looked toward Howard, Lee and
Myron, who were smoldering in a corner.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it
again:  I hate Mondays.

I
shrugged at Bauser, and headed off toward Howard.  “Your funeral,” Bauser
called after me.

“Remember
me kindly,” I called back.

I
stood in front of Howard.

“Geez,
what is that thing? You got a hickey on your forehead?” Howard asked.  Lee and
Myron smirked.

“No,
Howard.  This is a wound I got after I nabbed the mook who broke into my
house,” I responded, projecting a mental tongue out at Myron and Lee.  You can
take the girl out of Jersey, but not the Jersey out of the girl.  Can I lie, or
what?

Howard
paled and stepped back a few paces.  “Well, then,” he started, and pretended to
chuckle, then continued, “hope you can help find out who the bad guys are here,
Super Woman.”  He thwacked Myron across his waist; Myron bent over and coughed,
while Lee coddled his back and sent accusatory looks my way.  Howard and the
Suit exchanged smirks.

 “How’d
this happen, Howard? Any thoughts?”

“Yes! 
Yes! I have thoughts!” Howard exploded.  “You were supposed to be here with
Bauser yesterday when the power went out!  AND YOU WEREN’T!” he finished
triumphantly.

“Yes,
Howard, that’s correct,” I said. “I was unable to be here with Bauser during
the power shortage because I was UNCONSCIOUS.”

“Oh,”
Howard said.  I looked at Lee and Myron.  They stepped back a couple of feet. 
“Well, the fire marshal wants you to go through and show him all the office
permits, safeguards and insurance and engineering records for the server room,”
he said.

“Howard
– you established the office permits, safeguards and set up the insurance and
engineering records for the server room, long before I started here.”

“Yeah,
well you know where they are,” he answered.  “Myron, Dick – looks like we can
get that golf game in after all, gentlemen!” Howard smiled, slapping Dick the
Suit’s back.  Dick coughed and spluttered a grin.

“I
play too!” Lee exclaimed.

Howard
smiled at her and replied, “Of course you do, Lee, of course you do.” Then he,
Myron and Dick the Suit chuckled off.  Lee and I stood rooted amidst our mutual
disdain for each other, but outflanked by our common contempt of corporate
Dicks.

Lee
huffed off.  “Well I’m outta here.  I got better things to do.” And off she
stomped.

Bauser
sidled up.  “That’s what she meant by the memory dig.  Dick Fellas, from
Buy-A-Lots, was scheduled to visit.  Lee was bragging about it in the Ladies’
Room last Friday,” he said.  I squinted at him.  “I heard her through the air
ducts.  Next to the Men’s Room. It’s pretty clear if you’re standing on a
urinal with your ear next to them, too.”  I shook my head.  “So what’s he want
you to do now?”

“Escort
the Fire Marshal through a few thousand pounds of paper.”

Bauser
sighed.  “I’ll help.”

“You
don’t have to do that. You’re not on the hook.”

“Yeah,
but you weren’t even here when that paperwork was put in place.”

“I
should have been here with you yesterday.”

“What?
You and your cranial offspring?”

I
shrugged.  We found the Fire Marshal, and got ready to view the charred
remains.

Archie
Daley has the unenviable position of being investigating Fire Marshal for Lancaster.  To that end, he is not cheerful, convivial or anything that might mislead
anyone into thinking he particularly likes people or helping them.  If you
didn’t know better, you’d think Archie cheered each time a Lancastrian’s
property was ignited.

“Can’t
turn the elevators back on until we know they’re safe.  Walk up,” he ordered.

The
thought of walking up seven flights did not thrill my throbbing foot.  Or
forehead.  Or my newly stabbed arm.  And the prospect of possibly having to
resuscitate the sea lion hulk of Archie D. huffing and puffing up the stairs
ahead of me didn’t help, either. So I promised myself that if Archie passed out
on the staircase, my foot would accidentally get lodged in his hind quarters
and shove him down all seven flights of steps.  It made sense to me; in case of
emergency, break ass.

We
reached the seventh floor huffing and puffing.  Bauser and I gaped at the
propped open glass doors.  If How-weird knew about this security breach he’d
bust a gasket.  Smoke still hovered around the server room, thanks to the
building’s hermetically sealed windows.  Some fans were set up to blow the
smoke into the lobby.  This made for a great Halloween effect but didn’t seem
to be exactly OSHA friendly.

“Over
here, boss.  Think I got it,” a guy labeled ‘Volunteer Fireman’ called.

Daley
sauntered past Bauser and me and met the guy outside the server room.  Together
the two inspected some smelly smoldering remains.  “Oh, for crying out loud,”
Daley muttered.

Bauser
and I joined them.  “What?” I asked.

“This
wasn’t an electrical fire after all,” said Daley.

“What
do you mean?” Bauser asked.

Daley
held up a charred bag of some supremely stinky stuff.  “Found this in your
server room,” he gasped, waving his hand.

“Huh?”

“Someone
set a bag of dog crap on fire in your server room. Guess someone doesn’t like
you.” He and the volunteer fireman chuckled.

“Geez,”
the volunteer said, “just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

“But
that’s impossible!” Bauser yelped.  “I was the only one here!  And the door was
closed behind me!”

I
cringed.  Not only was this another proverbial nail in the Bauser coffin,
courtesy of How-weird, it was definitely not good for me.  I envisioned
Howard’s eyes lighting up at being the ‘hero’ for catching the ‘hostile
employees’ responsible for further delays to Buy-A-Lots’ new Lancaster store
opening.

“Look,
there has to be a logical explanation,” I began, walking behind Bauser and into
the server room that now doubled as a turkey smoker.

“Well,
this here’s your cause.  We’ll write it up for you, so you can take care of
your insurance,” the volunteer said with a grin.  “Actually, arson’s a lot
easier to claim than electrical malfunction,” he added.  Well, at least that
was good to know.  And it was very nice of him.  But he was obviously from Lancaster, too.

“Anyway,
there’s not too much more for either of you to do here now,” Daley said.  “The
building’s landlord’s been contacted and he’s sending extra security, so the
offices can get aired out. I suggest you examine for any missing contents
tomorrow, once we get the air cleared out here.  It’s not too safe health-wise
as it is,” he finished, looking at me – or, more precisely, my forehead –
meaningfully.

I
looked at Bauser, who was gently banging his head against the wall by the water
cooler.  I sighed and took out my pain killer prescription.  “Want some?” I
asked.

“Sure,”
he said. 

I
gulped a couple, and Bauser pocketed his for later.  Probably for when he had a
brewski at home.

“Need
a ride home?” he asked.

“Yeah,
but I have to hit the dry cleaner’s first,” I said.

“Vito?”

“Yup.”

We
said thanks and goodbyes to the volunteer fireman and Daley, who very kindly
tried not to guffaw at our predicament.  It’s one thing to wish your office
went up with the flaming bag of shit.  It’s another to have to tell your boss
that that’s what happened.

We
went silently and sullenly back down the seven flights of stairs.  We got to
the street and schlepped away together from the police barricades and into the
parking garage.  There we took the elevator to the top level, where Bauser
always parks his 1995 Aspire (“It aspires to be a car.”).  Some people like to
park their expensive cars away from others to avoid scratches and dings. 
Bauser parks far away to avoid co-workers.

After
Bauser removed a few dozen sci-fi paperbacks, old gaming CDs and leftover Buddy
Burger wrappers and coffee cups, there was some room for me to sit down.  I
perched down on the front seat and nestled Vito’s bag on my lap.  Oddly, I felt
better.  Maybe it was the fresh air on the rooftop.  Maybe it was escaping work
early on a Monday afternoon.  Or maybe the meds had kicked in.  Even though I
knew I’d have to re-lock and load the blame/burden thingy argument tomorrow
with How-weird, for now I was free.

Bauser
put on his mirrored shades, threw in a Ramones ‘Best of’ CD, and we started
off.  We trundled down the exit spindle of the parking garage and Bauser carded
our way out.  He hung a left and let me out on Prince Street in front of
Lickety-Split Laundry. As usual, I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Mrs.
Phang.  But this time, since the meds were working, it didn’t feel like such a
big deal.

I
walked into Lickety-Split Laundry with Vito’s bag.  No one was there.  This was
odd.  After a few moments of waiting, I rang the bell on the counter.  I
figured this would piss Mrs. Phang off, but I knew better than to just dump
Vito’s dry cleaning and run.  I looked out the window.  Bauser was waiting in
his Aspire, bobbing his head up and down to the Kinks.  Or the Romantics. 
Whatever.

A
nice, short, preppy looking redhead appeared.  “Good afternoon, may I help
you?” she asked me pleasantly. 

Um.
Okay.  “Who are you?” my meds let me blurt out. 

“I’m
Annie,” she said, beaming.

“Where’s
Mrs. Phang?”

“Oh,
she had to step out for a while.” Annie smiled, exposing endless miles of
Kansas-stretched porcelain teeth.

Methinks
I smelled a rural farmland rat.  Mrs. Phang probably hadn’t ‘stepped out’ since
1954.  And I never noticed a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, either.

“Can
I help you today?” Annie smiled at me.

“Uh,
yeah… sure…” I said, and handed over Vito’s ticket for pick up.

“Just
a minute!” Annie squealed, and ran the dry cleaning hook thingies through their
paces.  Which was weird, since Vito’s shirts always came in a box.  He never
got back hanging goods.  Annie stacked up an assortment of collar shirts,
Hawaiian shirts and golf shirts on the hanging bar.  She smiled and said,
“That’ll be $63.65.”

Okay
– this was definitely weird.  Clearly Annie hadn’t been broken in by Mrs. Phang
to know that Vito’s a regular, because she wanted payment from me and not
Vito.  I guess it was the meds, but I wasn’t into any static.  I gave Annie the
$63.65, and took the clean shirts.  “Do you have anything else you’d like to
drop off?” Annie asked me.

“Oh,
no, thanks… this is just my boxing gear,” I lied, indicating the gym bag full
of Vito’s stuff that I still needed to drop off.

“Thanks!
Come again! Have a happy day!” Annie called out after me.

I
stood by the side of Bauser’s Aspire, and banged on the window for him to help
let our dry cleaning passengers in for a ride.  I tossed Vito’s gym bag
alongside them.  “Everything okay?” he asked.

“No…
weird,” I said honestly.

“Great,”
Bauser shrugged, and did an illegal u-turn back to Orange Street and drove to
my house.

Bauser
backed up into my mini-ski slope driveway.  I guess he figured it was easier to
maneuver a potential head-on collision than rear-end my neighbor across the
street.  He pulled up, grated all the gears on his emergency brake, and
parked.  I sat there for a moment, apprehensive, and leaning forward.  I
wondered idly who else might wander out from my house at me.

After
listening to a final soulful chorus of the Ramones (“Hey, ho – let’s go!”)
Bauser shut off the engine, and helped me lug Vito’s dry cleaning into the
house.  I had a moment of panic, half anticipating Vito to accost me for his
laundry on our conjoined front porches.  Or worse yet, open my front door and
let me into my own house, as usual.  But luck was finally on my side: neither
happened.  I stepped into the front hall and sighed and itched my konked noggin
with dry cleaning hanger.  Bauser followed. I took Vito’s 75-pounds of dry
cleaning and stashed it inside the hall closet, along with his gym bag.  Lucky
for Vito I only have one coat.

Bauser’s
good with cats, and better with dogs.  Especially his own dog, Jim, who is a
three-legged Irish Setter.  Bauser adopted Jim from the animal shelter a couple
of years ago.  Don’t ask me how or why Jim’s minus a leg.  Some things you just
don’t want to know.

Vinnie
ambled up to Bauser – always happy to meet another fella – and grll’d, “Hullo,”
to him, and rubbed against his legs.  Upstairs, Marie shrieked.  The usual.