Patrick pushed his way through the crowd.
“Hey, watch out!” yelled an offended female voice.
He ignored it and continued cutting a path through the snaking lines of hungry party attendees sweating in their business casual. He’d reached a cluster of food trucks, all with owners who apparently loved alliteration. The Naughty Noodle, the Cheeky Chimichanga, and the Big Buns Bus were each doing a brisk business. One vintage Airstream, parked behind the Prussian Pierogi, appeared to be locked up tight. He glanced at the text message from Joe: Airstream behind PP. Bingo.
Patrick’s tattooed arm throbbed painfully, and his thoughts returned to Lisa. They’d fought before. What couple didn’t? But this time felt different. Seeing her working the party had made him feel at once angry and helpless. Angry that she was lowering herself to do this job, and helpless because he knew she needed the money and there was no way he could help her, no legal way. Working as a bike mechanic was great—until payday. He’d never make enough to cover all their rent if they moved in together. Why hadn’t he gone after her? His heart ached. But he was already late for this meeting—and it was his best chance to make some quick money. He took a deep breath. After, he’d find Lisa and apologize. She’d forgive him. She always had before.
He stepped up to the Airstream and knocked on the door.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of green. For a second, it felt like someone was watching him, but he shook it off. After all, he thought, who besides Lisa gave a shit what he was up to?
A woman opened the door and peered down at him.
“Hello ma’am, I’m looking for Sheila. Joe sent me.” He politely held out his hand. “My name is Patrick.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she said, “Never call me ma’am again.”
“Sorry ma’am,” he said, panicking.
“Just get inside.”
He stepped into the Airstream and quickly gave Sheila an appraising look. She was as decked out as any attendee in a black pantsuit with heels. Patrick could see that unlike the rest of the crowd that she was stone-cold sober and was by far the most serious person he’d seen tonight. There was something else. Most of the attendees only wanted to sell themselves. They’d lie, bullshit, and exaggerate to pass themselves off as legitimate. Sheila, on the other hand, was here to make money. Real money.
“Joe tells me you’re looking for work,” she said.
“Yes, I am.”
Sheila motioned toward a small built-in table and bench, indicating that he should sit. His lanky frame barely fit, yet he managed to cram his body onto the seat. She remained standing and stared at him with narrowed, slightly feline eyes.
“Why are we meeting in a food truck?” he asked nervously.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. You don’t seem to be cooking anything.”
“Your powers of observation astound me,” said Sheila. “So, tell me. Can you use a microwave? Press buttons?”
“Yeah, I think I can handle that.”
“Great. You’re hired.”
Patrick felt very confused, and wasn’t sure yet if he wanted to work for Sheila, but he sighed with relief that the interview was over. “What’s the job?” he asked.
“Selling drugs.”
“Sure, but what does that have to do with microwave ovens?”
“For you, nothing yet. The microwave comes later.”
Patrick had a sudden inspiration. “You’re dealing out of food trucks.”
Sheila looked surprised though not displeased, and he decided it was best to keep it coming.
He thought quickly. “I can imagine it’s tough working in a cash business, but with the trucks, it’s all small transactions, right?”
“Joe didn’t tell me you were smart,” she said dryly.
“And the trucks are mobile, of course. You can move around, show up at clubs late at night, everyone’s hungry and looking for a fix. And they’re easy to dump.”
“Something like that.”
“Which food truck do I get?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh no, you’ll be on deliveries to start. You have to get to know the product and how to deal with customers. I need to figure out which cart to assign you. You’re too cute. I can’t have lots of ladies—or dudes, for that matter—lining up to get served by a young Keanu Reeves clone. We need to keep a low profile after all. Attention is the enemy.” Sheila continued thoughtfully, “It’ll have to be something unappetizing and slightly offensive. I’ll give it some thought, but in the meantime, take this.”
She handed him a small black device. He clicked a button and read on a tiny strip of screen: No Messages. “What is this thing?” he asked.
“A beeper.”
“Oh man! My dad used to have one of these. Kept it in a dorky case on his belt.”
She handed Patrick a dorky case. “Put this on your belt so you don’t lose it.”
He took the beeper case reluctantly.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked Sheila.
“I have to put it on now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He popped the beeper into the holder and clipped it to his belt, tugging his T-shirt down to cover it.
“I’ll send locations, instructions, and times. Make your deliveries within thirty minutes or you’re fired.” Sheila unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a paper bag. “You’ll start with cocaine deliveries. This is everything you should need. I only deal in pure organic coke. My clientele like to think they’re making a positive drug choice, so sell it that way.”
He nodded. “Absolutely. What do I do with the cash?”
“I’m giving you five thousand in product. When it’s sold, deliver the money to the Prussian Pierogi. Most days Boris parks his cart in the Five Firs lot on Glisan, but follow his social feed and you’ll be able to find him. Boris will give you your share. And keep clear of the police. The mayor has everyone on high alert. Even the cops we pay off are giving us grief. You get caught, you talk, and I will kill you. Seriously.”
Patrick didn’t doubt her sincerity. He stashed the sack in his messenger bag.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one. She offered the pack to Patrick, but he shook his head no.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, he looked more closely around the Airstream. “This trailer looks just like the old Clam Shack food truck,” he said.
“Oh my god.” Sheila stared at him with menace. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Clam Shack?”
He coughed at the second-hand smoke that was quickly filling the small space and rambled on. “Sorry, Sheila. I loved their food. I didn’t know clams could be so good. That thing with bacon and the broth. It was transcendent.”
“Get out.”
“I’m sorry.” He got up to leave but got stuck trying to extract his knees from under the small table.
After watching him struggle for a moment, Sheila said, “Oh, just stay there.”
She lit another cigarette from her first and took a deep drag.
“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this trailer. This gets out, I break your knee caps.”
Patrick wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I’ll take it to the grave.”
“You got that right,” she said forcefully, then her voice softened. “It was the first food truck I managed.”
“The Clam Shack was yours?”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you.” She looked at him closely. “It’s your face. It feels so familiar. Like you already know the story. Anyway. Yes, I came up with the concept.”
“Holy shit.”
“It should have been so simple. Who the hell would be stupid enough to eat a clam from a goddamned food truck? You’re just asking for trouble. I’m thinking, load up on frozen boxed clam entrees from Trader Joe’s, toss ‘em in the microwave, serve them in the least appetizing way possible, you know, in big nasty Styrofoam bowls and single-use plastic utensils. Then sell drugs out the back window and doctor the books. Easy, right?”
“Seems reasonable. What went wrong?”
“I hired a real chef. It was a nightmare. First, he started complaining about all the waste, so he started serving the clams in bowls he picked up at a restaurant supply store, with chopsticks and these big stupid bottles of . . . you know. The spicy red stuff.”
“Sriracha?”
“That’s it. Then he wanted to try his own recipes with a special broth, local clams, and organic bacon. When he asked for the air fryer for Belgian fries, I knew I had to put a stop to it. But we were in too deep. The Clam Shack was named restaurant of the year by The Oregonian. Within hours, the lines were out of control.”
She stubbed out her lipstick-stained cigarette in an ashtray. “Even the chief of police tweeted it was her favorite. I almost couldn’t sell any product. I had to let it go.”
“You sold it?”
“No. I murdered the chef.”
“What?”
Sheila laughed. “I’m kidding. No. I just fired him and changed the truck’s name to Hells Shells. After a few customers came down with food poisoning, I was back in business. I sell drugs, not clams.”
“Sure but . . .”
“Now I only hire people who don’t give a shit about food, who understand their real job is to move cash and sell drugs—lots of drugs. Work hard, don’t use, and you’ll have your own food truck soon enough.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Patrick.