Thirty-Seven
The Uber driver dropped Mel and me off at the head of Follen Street. It turned out that my wish for pizza had been answered by the pizza gods. A pizza truck sat in front of my condo, the driver standing on my front steps staring up at the building.
I called out, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for this guy named Aloysius Tucker.”
“What for?”
“He ordered pizza.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So you are him. Help me with these.”
The pizza guy waddled around to the back of his SUV, raised the lift gate, and looked up at me. “C’mon, they’re getting cold.”
“What’s getting cold?” I asked.
“Your pizzas.”
I peered into the SUV. Pizza boxes filled every available spot. The pizza guy said, “There you go, twenty-five, assorted.”
“Twenty-five pizzas?”
“Yeah. Just like you ordered.”
“I didn’t order twenty-five pizzas. I wasn’t even home.”
The pizza guy cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t even.”
“What do you mean, ‘Don’t even’? I didn’t order these.”
“You know I could have you arrested.”
“For what?”
“Wire crime.”
“Wire fraud,” said Mel.
“Yeah, that one.”
“I didn’t order these pizzas,” I said.
“We got your name. We got your phone number.”
“So does everybody. I’m in the book. Do you have a credit card number?”
“No. You’re supposed to pay now.”
“I’m sorry, dude, you’ve been punked.”
“What?” said the pizza guy.
“It was a joke,” I said.
“I’m not laughing.”
“Neither am I, but I guarantee the guy who ordered the pizza is. He’s having a good time telling his buddies about how he found a pizza place that would take an order for twenty-five pizzas without even asking for a credit card. They must have looked for days.”
The pizza guy slammed his hand on the side of the SUV.
“So what? I’m out the fucking money?” Then to Mel. “Can he do that?”
“Technically—” said Mel.
I said. “I didn’t order the pizzas. Why would I order twenty-five pizzas? They don’t even fit in my condo.”
The pizza guy said, “Goddamn it! Goddamn it! Goddamn it!”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s twenty-five bucks down the fucking drain!”
“What twenty-five bucks?”
“Ingredients.”
“You only put a buck’s worth of ingredients in a whole pizza?”
The pizzameister crossed his arms. “We buy in volume.”
“What do you buy in volume? How much volume can that be?”
“Plenty of volume.”
“Oh my God. How much was this order?”
The guy consulted a long slip of paper. “It’s $317.25.”
“Hell of a profit.”
“There’s overhead.”
“I’ll bet.”
The pizza guy flipped me off, lowered the SUV gate, waddled back to the driver’s side, and hoisted himself in. “Where’s the police when you need them?” he said to Mel.
Mel said, “Right here. I could arrest him if you want, but it won’t get you paid.”
Pizza guy started his engine. “Motherfucker, shit,” he said, and started to roll the SUV down the street.
I ran after the van. “Hey, wait!”
He stopped, glared at me. “Yeah?”
“You know the homeless shelter on Columbia Ave?”
“Yeah?”
I pulled out my credit card. “I’ll buy them. You deliver them there.”
“You got it!”
I opened the SUV back, grabbed a pizza, and let the SUV head off.
Mel said, “That was really nice.”
“Seemed a shame to waste twenty-five dollars’ worth of ingredients.”
As Mel and I climbed the steps to my condo, I did a mental sweep of my housekeeping. Dishes in the sink? No. I cleaned those. Underwear on the floor? Maybe. Keep her out of the bedroom. General clutter and the like? No. I don’t allow general clutter and the like.
I opened the door to my apartment and glanced around. All was as I had hoped, ready for company. I tossed the pizza on the kitchen nook counter, grabbed out a couple of plates, and placed 12 cents of ingredients on each plate. Needed something to wash it down.
“Coffee, tea, wine, whiskey, beer?” I asked.
“Do you have water?”
“Water?”
“You know, to drink.”
“Blech … I guess.”
I ran the tap, let it get cold, filled a glass for Mel and one for myself.
“You don’t have to drink water,” said Mel.
“Better than letting you drink alone,” I said. “Plus, I can also have a beer. Either way, we have some coding to do.”
I sat next to Mel, opened the laptop, and opened Twitter.
I searched Twitter for #TuckerGate, and scrolled through the results. Each insult felt like a little punch in the gut.
… murder …
… rapist …
… mastermind …
… criminal …
… mafia kingpin …
The last one made me laugh.
“What?” asked Mel.
“Kingpin? Who even says that anymore?”
I did a search for pizza and found this:
@PwnSec: Pizza Party at @TuckerInBoston’s house.
Then my address.
“You should tell them what you did with the pizza,” said Mel.
“Can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“I promised my lawyer I wouldn’t tweet. Besides, it would only encourage them.”
The doorbell rang. I went to the intercom and pressed the button.
“Pizza! Pizza!” someone yelled into it, then snickered.
I ran to the front window, saw two figures bolting down the street.
Idiots.
“Pizza, pizza, my ass,” I said. “Let’s dox these bastards.”