Fair-haired, tall and lean — despite hours of relative inactivity spent behind the wheel — Dugan retained his boyish good looks late into his third decade. That’s precisely why he was hired by Fit-Chef on the very day he filed an employment application, before he even passed his background check. Ric Minelli, FitChef’s smooth talking Las Vegas regional manager, was a former salesman himself. Ric understood his company’s clientele and realized immediately that Dugan’s home-spun charm would play well with his customer base, which was ninety-six point five percent female.
Paul had been with for Fit-Chef for a year now and liked his job. Fleeing a massive layoff in the blighted northeast, he left Johnstown, Pennsylvania and his shrew of an ex-wife, hoping to relocate to Los Angeles where he had friends. But the transmission on his car failed just shy of the California border, and while Paul waited in a Las Vegas garage for repairs, he met another driver for Fit-Chef. The man told Paul that the most popular food ser vice in Nevada was always looking for an experienced delivery driver. Now Paul was another transplant to the fastest growing urban area in the United States.
Feeling the burn on the back of his ruddy neck, Dugan unlocked the back of the white panel truck, checked the manifest on his electronic pad. “T. Baird” was his next delivery destination. Paul grinned in anticipation. Tiffany Baird played a scantily-clad vampire at the new Goth extravaganza at the Castle Casino. Though he’d never actually seen the show, Paul couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous ad campaign, in which Tiffany’s figure was prominently displayed. Of course, in reality Tiffany was nothing like her showgirl persona. She was actually rather sweet.
In the shade of the truck’s interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.
Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. “Yeah? Hello…”
“Fit-Chef,” Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.
Tiffany’s was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn’t need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic flip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third finger of her left hand lacked a ring.
Tiffany Baird greeted him with a smile that was tempered with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Miss Baird,” Paul replied. “I guess I got lucky.”
“I thought that Mexican kid was delivering today.”
Paul frowned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disappointed to see me.”
“Not at all,” Tiffany cried, pushing an unruly lock of hair away from her face. “It’s just that the delivery is coming so late and all, I figured something must have happened.”
Dugan handed her the package. She set it down on a plastic lawn chair, signed the electronic manifest he presented.
“Actually, Ignacio’s day turned to crap,” Dugan said. “His truck got jacked a couple of hours ago. The punk who stole it pistol whipped Iggy, put him in the hospital.”
Tiffany ripped the lid off the box. “Jesus. Ain’t nobody safe?” she grunted.
“Apparently not,” Dugan replied. “It’s crazy, too. It’s not like he’s driving a Brinks truck, just a shit load of diet food — er, pardon my French.”
Tiffany sniffed, frowning at the contents of a plastic container. “Edamame again. They call this protein?”
Paul watched her rummage through the box, realized she wore nothing under the thin kimono.
“If you ever get sick of that rabbit food, let me know. I’ll buy you a steak at Smith and Wollensky’s.”
The bold invitation had come out of Paul’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. Now, face flushed with embarrassment, he waited for the polite rebuff — and felt like kicking himself.
Tiffany licked teriyaki sauce off her fingers. Then she grinned. “Fit-Chef is a real full ser vice company, huh?”
“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“Don’t be,” Tiffany replied, tapping his nametag with an ebony enameled finger. “In fact, you better watch yourself, Mr. Dugan. I might just take you up on your offer.”
Dugan blinked. “How about this Saturday?”
Tiffany’s grin broadened. “How about Sunday. I work Fridays and Saturdays.”
Paul nodded, speechless.
“You’ve got my phone number in that little computer of yours,” Tiffany said, hefting her delivery. “Give me a call on Friday and we’ll set a time.”
Dugan stood blinking in the sun for a full thirty seconds after Tiffany Baird closed her front door. Finally he turned and, whistling again, headed back to the truck.
Crossing the sidewalk, Paul Dugan was too distracted to notice the late-model black Ford Explorer with tinted windows parked across the street. Still lost in a fog of euphoria, he deactivated the alarm and unlocked the door.
A shadow suddenly crossed the sun, then something exploded inside Paul Dugan’s head. A sharp jolt of pain roiled his spine. His knees gave out and he dropped to the hot asphalt. Seemingly in slow motion, he reached out to steady himself — only to have the truck’s keys snatched out of his semi-limp fingers. Paul grunted in protest, and another blow came down on the back of his head, slamming him flat.
He moaned as someone stepped over him. Hot tar burned his cheek. The wheels right next to his head spun, squealing, as the truck roared away. A moment of throbbing silence followed. Then a red haze engulfed his vision, and Paul Dugan’s world faded to black.
“Big Ed’s got the keys and made it away clean,” said
the fidgeting man in the passenger seat.
“Let’s go,” the driver grunted.
Toomes threw the Explorer into gear, pulled away from the curb. As they drove by, Drew peered through the tinted glass at the man on the ground.
“Jesus, I hope Big Ed didn’t kill ’em,” he said, one hand clinging to the dashboard.
“So what if he did?” Toomes kept his eyes on the highway, his giant hands wrapped around the steering wheel. His rubbery jowls bounced like jelly on the rough pavement.
“Goddamn construction,” he cursed.
Drew dropped back into his seat. He lifted his wrist to display his plastic Seiko watch. “It’s after three. We should have been back by now.”
“Relax. We’re done. We’re gonna pick up the other trucks.”
“Yeah, we’re done. But was it done smart?” Drew’s voice was high. His eyes were close together, and bulged a little, like fish eyes. Now they darted nervously. “Listen, Hugo told us to snatch three trucks in Reno, Toomes. Not Vegas, Reno. That’s ’cause he doesn’t want them turning up on the Metro Police stolen vehicle sheet for twenty-four hours—”
Toomes snorted. “Hugo Bix gives the cops in this town way too much credit. Why should I give up my winning seat at a high stakes table at the Bellagio, to drive to Reno in the middle of the stinking night. All that, just to jack three trucks?”