Page 71 of Fiona and the Fixer

“You don’t know what a gherkin is?” Mrs. Highcliff questioned. I could see her looking down her nose. “I want to see the manager.”

I found a slightly heavy, slightly light container.Unscrewed the lid. Looked inside. Empty. I poked at the false bottom and found…

Bingo.

Plastic wrapped bags. Four of them. I picked one up. Hundreds of small pale blue pills inside.

Fentanyl.

“I am the manager,” the man replied.

“Then I’d like to file a complaint.”

“Lady, you talkingisfiling a complaint. I don’t have any pickles.”

“Why?”

“Because they went bad.”

“Was there a food poisoning outbreak? I didn’t hear of one. Does the county health department know?”

I could hear the man’s blood pressure rising. “No food poisoning. Just no pickles.”

Mrs. Highcliff huffed. “I’ll be back tomorrow when your supply is replenished.”

“It might not be tomorrow. There’s a… a pickle shortage.”

“How am I going to make the potato salad?” she asked.

“Sorry, lady. Get some at the store?”

“Have you ever eaten store bought potato salad? All egg or all mustard. No flavor.”

“Sorry.”

Mrs. Highcliff and Bob both grumbled to themselves. I doubted the guy could hear, but I could.Incompetent. Pickles are just cucumbers. Now what am I going to drink?I heard the bell above the door ring, signaling their grumpy departure.

That meant the guy would be back. I grabbed one of the plastic packages and tucked into the back of my pants, then set the container back, screwing the lid on. Then flew out the back door. As soon as the door was closed behind me, I heard the guy returning to his work and muttering to himself about crazy people.

Going around the van, I bumped into someone. It was Mr. Leather Jacket from the day before.

“Shit, sorry,” I muttered, taking a few steps back.

“Whoa,” he said. “Whatcha doin’?”

“I was in yesterday and–”

“Pregnant lady. I remember.”

Great, he remembered me.

“Well, I um, I overheard customers up front being told there still weren’t any pickles so I came back here to see if some were in your van.”

“That’s a pretty wicked craving,” he replied, eyeing me.

I swallowed, set my hand on my flat belly. “Seriously. I had no idea it would be like this. You don’t want to fuck with a hormonal woman. Ineedmy pickles,” I practically growled.

He held up his hands as if to ward me off, probably thinking my head was going to spin around in circles. “Okay, hang on.”

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