Big Pickle Page 3

  I have no idea. No wonder I’m dead last in the race for best deli.

  I lean back against the headrest and thread my fingers together.

  This seems like a lot of work. Maybe I shouldn’t even bother.

  Everybody knows Anthony’s deli is managed the best, and he cares the most. I could let him win and be done with it

  But when I peer across the parking lot at the front awning of Austin Pickle, I know I can’t do that. It’s not the Pickle way. Dad raised us to do our best, to be competitive, to win. And the fact is, I’m not sure I like this impression that his eldest son has learned nothing from his old man. That I don’t care about the legacy he started.

  So no, I’m not going to throw the challenge. I’m going to get in there tomorrow and learn how to make my own damn sandwiches. Figure out how many nonstandard financial procedures are going down. And ultimately, get rid of any bad apples on my staff, including this Nova Strong person if need be.

  And who knows. Maybe I will turn out to be such a terrific boss and entrepreneur that I’ll actually win this thing.

  The next morning, I arrive at Austin Pickle at nine sharp. The text from Nova with my reporting time came through a couple of hours after my conversation with Audra.

  She’s reliable at least.

  I park my BMW in a garage a few blocks down to avoid attention. Nova has already accused me of being too uppity for sandwich work.

  I’ve tried to mimic the way the other employee dressed. Faded jeans. T-shirt. Didn’t we have Pickle shirts for the employees? Dad did in Manhattan. I’ve never visited my brothers’ delis in Boulder and L.A.

  Should we? Maybe not. It’s another expense when I’m trying to squeeze out some profit.

  The door is locked when I approach. Right. We don’t open until eleven.

  The deli is part of a block of buildings. There’s no easy way to get around to a back door.

  My iPad is in the car, and I can’t call or text on my personal phone or I’ll blow my cover.

  Great start, Jace. Great start.

  I peer through the glass. Nova is in there, along with the employee from yesterday and two women. They’re all busy taking chairs down and filling napkin dispensers and messing with the tea machines.

  I watch Nova for a moment. She laughs easily with her crew, climbing up on the cabinet to peer in the top of the soda dispenser. She fixes something and jumps down, her brown hair flying behind her.

  I’m momentarily distracted by the way her breasts bounce when suddenly the door opens. I stumble forward.

  “Jason, I assume?” It’s the man from yesterday, tall and lean with a smirking grin. He holds out an arm to make sure I don’t fall.

  I straighten up. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  Nova turns. “Oh, hey, Jason.” She glances at my outfit. “I see you came dressed for work today.”

  I nod, tugging at the cotton shirt uncomfortably. I’d picked it up at a local record shop. It reads “Keep Austin Weird.”

  “Killer jeans, though,” the man says. “They must have set you back.”

  Maybe I should have downgraded my Fendi to Gap or something.

  “I’m Lamonte.” The man extends a hand. “Welcome to Austin Pickle.”

  I grasp it firmly. “Jason.”

  He grins like I’m an idiot. Right. He already said my name.

  He releases me and points at a young woman with a blond ponytail. “That’s Kate. She goes to UT.” Then he gestures to a middle-aged Hispanic woman. “And that’s Elda.”

  I give them both a wave.

  “What should I do first?” I’ll toe the line for a bit, but as soon as I get a chance, I plan to get into the manager’s office and review the books.

  “I think Nova’s got some paperwork.”

  Right. I should probably get out of that. No use complicating things. I wish I’d been able to have Audra communicate this, but we’d been short on time to talk about details before Nova called. I head to the counter.

  Nova pushes a couple of sheets of paper my way. “Most of this is just a formality. Job application, even though you’ve already got the job. And the tax paperwork.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to fill any of that out,” I say.

  Nova’s smile goes forced. “I’m afraid you do. Jace Pickle’s instructions from his assistant specifically said you were to fill out the forms, and she’d get back to me on the pay scale. And also, no special treatment.”

  She seems to relish saying it. My suspicions about her rise another notch. Is she trying to get me out of here? Does she have something to hide, and she’s afraid I’ll find it?

  “Fine,” I say, turning the paper around.

  I scratch out the information, using my Manhattan address, which isn’t connected to any of the other Pickles, and the iPad phone number.

  Then I drop my pen. “Done. Should I head to the back? Scrub up?”

  “In a sec.” Nova Strong examines my job application like a calculus teacher needing someone to flunk. “What do you know about deli work?” Her voice is practically a bark. The woman must have been a drill sergeant in a former life. Or maybe this one, judging by the camo pants and Army boots.

  Still, the soft black tank top hugs her curves, softening the effect of the bottom half of her outfit. She’s a pistol, no doubt about it.

  “I’ve made a sandwich or two,” I say.

  She sighs, blowing a puff of hair off her forehead. She’s as gorgeous as she is fierce. It’s a combination that’s increasingly setting me off balance, even though I suspect she’s up to no good.

  I attempt a grateful expression, which, admittedly, is not my forte. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

  She stabs the application. “I’m going to need some ID to prove this really is your name.”

  My jaw tightens. Dad insisted we all live publicly as Pickles to support the franchise name. But in reality, we jumped at the chance. Because in our business, our birth name is incredibly, most horribly worse.

  I pull out my wallet to hand her my ID. Thankfully it lists the matching address.

  Nova can’t fight back her grin. “How do you pronounce that, Jason?”

  I sigh. “Just like it’s spelled.”

  “I want to be sure I’m getting it right.”

  I glance around the room. The other employees are listening in, even though they act like they’re working.

  I lean in.

  “It’s Packwood.”

  Giggles erupt from the college students. I glance at Lamonte, who is working hard to keep his face straight. Elda has her back to us.

  Nova’s expression is poker serious. “Packwood. I haven’t heard that name before.”

  “It’s not that rare. And you have my ID right there.”

  She shakes her head. “I guess I wouldn’t know how to spot a fake ID from New York.”

  What? She doesn’t believe me?

  “Immigrants were named by what they did.”

  “And your people pack wood?”

  Now Lamonte has lost it. He’s bent over, mouth covered. Kate has dashed to the back, lost in giggles. Elda still faces away, but her shoulders are shaking.

  I try to find my inner Zen.

  Nova’s expression is stern, but her eyes sparkle with mischief. “It’s a great name. I can’t wait to put it on an employee pin.”

  Her curvy little tank—and I admit I linger on it longer than I should—doesn’t sport a pin.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Oh, we haven’t had them made in a while,” she says. “Turnover was so high it didn’t make sense.”

  “But now…”

  “Oh yes. I think we definitely need to bring them back.” She clips the pages together. “I’ll put these away. There are aprons in the back. We’ll get you started on the cutting board.”

  She calls out, “Lamonte, can you show Jason where the knives are? And make sure he can handle himself. We don’t want his blood in the potato salad.” She glares at me. “You can h
ead on back.”

  I find Lamonte by a long stainless-steel table in the center of the room and accept the apron he hands me. Hopefully, I can focus on the work and not that difficult woman.

  I’m trying to have a sense of humor about this, but my deli is proving to have too little pickle, and too much brine.

  4

  Nova

  Jason Packwood strikes me as a pain in the ass, but at least he seems to have a work ethic. I check in on him and Lamonte chopping vegetables in the kitchen before prepping the line to serve.

  Elda has the drink station all set up. Kate is getting the tables in order. I make sure the hot and cold temperatures are all set appropriately and began placing the vats of meats and cheeses in their slots along the counter.

  Lamonte will have to leave shortly to deliver the stuffed pickle order he prepped early this morning. I punch in a receipt and open the fridge that holds all the pickup and delivery orders.

  We don’t do as much of these as we used to, and I wonder if this is something the old manager did well, a facet of the business that is suffering in her absence. Now that I have a corporate spy of sorts with this Jason guy, who undoubtedly will report anything weird straight to his dear friend Jace Pickle, I should try again to get the passwords to turn on the main computer in Susan’s office.

  I feel so in the dark about everything. It’s all I can do to keep the store going, and pray we always get sufficient deliveries and the bills are somehow paid. Last week the distributor of the specialty peppers insisted we cut a check on the spot. I simply had to take the old checkbook—which we rarely used since Susan would print the official ones on her computer—and scribble out the amount on his invoice. It was either that or not have three of our signature dishes.

  Of course, yesterday we had the tiny pickle dilemma.

  I might be low on crew at the moment, but the ones I do have are reliable. Still, Kate will leave at the end of May, when she heads home for the summer. She’s why I already put out a notice for a new employee, hoping to get someone trained before I lose her.

  Lamonte pushes through the swinging door. “I’m headed out to deliver those pickles.”

  “Do you think you’ll make it back before the rush?” I ask.

  “Should.” He leans in closer. “I’m a little short on gas money, though. Payday’s not till tomorrow.”

  I nod. Lamonte is perpetually short on gas money. We worked out a system where I sometimes front him part of his paycheck, and as soon as he cashes it, he returns the money to the till.

  It’s never once been a problem. But by the time I put in the code to open the register, Jason has stuck his head through the door to watch.

  Spying.

  I had a feeling. I slam the register closed without removing any money. “Take my car. The keys are in my cubbie.”

  I shouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt as I turn to Jason, but I somehow do. Even though I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, not today or yesterday, with the cash register, I feel a twinge. I keep track of any money coming out of the register on a sticky note underneath the tray. But it is an irregularity. There’s no electronic trail, and no one checks my work or approves what I do.

  “Did you finish the onions?” I ask Jason.

  Jason wipes his eye with the back of his wrist, since his hands are covered in plastic gloves. “I was going to ask Lamonte if I chopped them fine enough.”

  Lamonte shuts the fridge with his shoulder, an insulated delivery bag in each hand. “Nova, can you check? He could use some tips. His dicing skills need work. He can’t mince.”

  I glance at the sandwich line to see what still needs to be done. “Elda, can you put out the pickles? I’m headed to the back.”

  Jason pushes the door open for me to pass through. I catch a strong whiff of onions and jalapeños as I walk by. Lamonte gave him the worst cutting assignments.

  But beneath that, I catch a trace of something woodsy and expensive. Aftershave? Probably not. He still sports the same scruffy, tumbled-out-of-bed look he had yesterday.

  Cologne, I guess. I’ve never been around a cologne guy. It seems fussy. None of my other male friends are fussy. Not by a longshot.

  Even though he’s dressed down for the occasion, Jason still holds the appearance of someone distinctly upper-class. I don’t know enough to put my finger on what it might be. The stitching on his jeans? The perfect way they hug his hips? The fit of the T-shirt, obviously new, tucked casually into the front band of his jeans, but not in the back?

  I’ve seen that before. I watch Queer Eye. It’s a French tuck. I’m not sure who does that on a daily basis, but certainly not anyone I know.

  At least, not until now.

  We head to the counter where he’s been chopping onions.

  It’s a travesty. I grab a glove and slide it on. “Well, this leaves a lot to be desired.” I lift a handful in my palm like an accusation. “There are no less than five distinct sizes in these onions.”

  “Lamonte tried to show me, but I think it’s going to take some practice,” Jason says.

  I drop the onions to the cutting board. “We can’t have someone taking a bite of our classic chicken salad, which is where these particular onions are headed, and suddenly get a big honking bite of raw onion. The flavors have to blend precisely the right way.”

  For a moment, Jason watches me curiously. “You care about how things taste, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. It’s Austin Pickle. We have a reputation to uphold!”

  “It’s pickles!”

  “It’s our twelve special kinds of pickles.”

  I grab a spare knife and slice through the onions, rapidly mincing them to the fine bits necessary to make chicken salad work.

  I move down to the jalapeños. “Lamonte didn’t show you anything? These are supposed to be super thin. The jalapeños are really potent.”

  “I tried to do what he was doing.” Jason sounds genuinely frustrated.

  “I can’t use these. We don’t serve anything with chopped jalapeños, and the slices are way too thick.” I slide the entire set off the cutting board and into the compost at the end. “Show me how you’re holding the knife.”

  Jason lifts his knife parallel to the board. I pass him a fresh jalapeño.

  He slices it down the middle and scrapes out the seeds.

  “So far, so good,” I say.

  He turns the jalapeño flat side down and lifts the knife.

  I immediately say, “Stop!”

  He freezes his slice mid-air. “What?”

  “The knife should not be in the air. Keep the tip on the cutting board and bring it down like it’s one of those old-fashioned paper cutters from school.”

  “I remember those. My friend dared me to see if it would cut off my finger.”

  “And were you stupid enough to try?” I cock my hip, arms crossed. Surely, he isn’t that dumb.

  “I was an eight-year-old boy! Of course I tried it.”

  I feel a laugh bubbling up inside me, but I squelch it down. “So how many stitches did you require?”

  “Three. But it was worth it.”

  Now I do have to laugh. “What made it worth it?”

  “Every girl in the class brought me cookies and cards.”

  That sobers me up. “So, you were a playboy even then?”

  His grin is slow and easy, and I’m reminded of when he turned on the charm yesterday after deciding he needed to switch tactics with me.

  I go on alert. Snake oil. He’s laying it on thick now.

  “Who says I’m a playboy?”

  I shrug. “I can spot them. I meet a ton of them at UT.”

  He sets down his knife. “You go to UT?”

  Heat rises from my neck. I really don’t want to go into this with him. “I did.”

  “You graduated but you work here?”

  I don’t know if it’s real confusion or pity, but I don’t like it.

  “I haven’t finished yet,” I snap. “Let’s
see if you can cut a jalapeño worthy of serving on our sandwich line or if you’re a complete waste of space.”

  He’s not bothered by my insult. His perfect eyebrows move together in concern. Hating him would be a whole lot easier if he wasn’t so pretty.

  “I get it. You don’t talk about it.” He turns back to the jalapeño. He leans down very close to the green pepper. “All right, my friend. I am very sorry I have to cut you into pieces. But apparently, my unpaid position is on the line. So help me out and I’ll be merciful.”

  All right, I have to admit it. He’s funny. My shoulders relax. “Just get on with it,” I say, but my tone doesn’t have the bite like before.

  He grins at me, and my belly flips. Stop it, traitorous stomach.

  “So, I keep the tip on the counter and then I bring it down.” He slices the first cut.

  “Perfect. Curl your left hand so you’re not putting your fingers in the line of fire. I won’t be bringing you cards and cookies if you need stitches.”

  He grins at me again. “You sure?”

  “Positive. Make a claw.”

  “Like this?” He rolls back his fingers.

  “Yeah. And push the pepper with your thumb.”

  He still doesn’t have it, so I pick up another knife and show him the motion.

  “All right,” he says, but he still lifts his knife in the air.

  I put my hand over his wrist. “Like this,” I say. “Tip down, rocking motion.”

  We slice the pepper together. Our hands are covered in plastic, but our arms are bare. My skin brushes against his, and the touch is electric. I quickly step away.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

  “No. I think you’ve got it. Those slices are good. Carry on.”

  I back out of the kitchen as quickly as possible, bumping into a rolling cart as I go.

  He doesn’t remark on that but continues his slow methodical slices.

  As I whirl around and blow through the door to the front of the deli, my face flames.

  What the hell was that?

  A spark? A silly, ridiculous spark? A romance novel, sappy Hallmark movie, gross cliché spark?

  I rip off the gloves and rub my arm as if it’d been burned.