The guy smirked. “Something like that.”
Burt growled low.
“They’re not here,” Nick lied and snatched the thick manila envelope from the man’s gigantic paw. Under other less vaguely threatening circumstances, it would have been entertaining to stand him next to Gabe. “I’ll see that they get this.”
“You do that,” the stranger said. He managed to make three little words sound menacing.
“Need me to sign a receipt?” Nick asked.
He smirked again. “Not necessary. I’ll tell my employer the message was delivered.”
Nick slammed the door in the man’s face and studied the large envelope in his hands. “Tommy? Forget the hollandaise and get your ass out here now!”
“What the hell was that?” Riley asked. “He was handing out villain vibes like candy from a parade float.”
“Let’s find out,” Nick said. Tommy poked his head out of the kitchen, looking fifty shades of pants-shitting nervous. He held a pair of tongs like a weapon. “You got a delivery, Tommy.”
“I’ll, uh, open it later.”
“I don’t think so. You’ll open it now,” Nick informed him.
Tommy took a few tentative steps toward them, then stopped again. “I can’t let the hollandaise separate. It’ll ruin breakfast.”
“Fine. I’ll open it,” Nick decided.
“No! Don’t!” Tommy shrieked as Nick tore open the envelope.
He dumped the contents onto the table Sesame had dragged into the foyer for her photo shoot. A fat sheath of papers hit the table, followed by a long, thin object.
Riley gasped. “Oh my God. Is that a…”
“Give me those tongs,” Nick said, snapping his fingers at Tommy. The man had lost all color in his cheeks. He stumbled forward and handed over the tongs.
Nick picked up the item in question and held it up. “Yeah, that’s definitely a finger.”
Riley let out a strangled cry.
Burt, convinced the finger was a hot dog that was terrifying his mom, began to bark.
“I think I’m gonna be—” Tommy finished his sentence by ralphing into the antique urn also from Sesame’s photo shoot.
“Who would send you a fucking finger, Tommy? What the hell are you mixed up in?” Nick demanded, ignoring the vomiting.
“I don’t know,” Tommy wailed.
Nick strode back to the front door to get a look at the guy’s vehicle. But when he flung the door open, he found someone else standing on the porch.
The photographer from Sesame’s photo shoot had an envelope in her hand.
Nick tossed the tongs and finger over his shoulder, ignoring the sounds of Burt’s toenails scrabbling on the floor as Riley tried to keep him from chasing what he thought was a hot dog. Tommy yelped and ran face first into the kitchen door.
“Everything all right in there?” the photographer asked. “It sounded like someone was in distress.”
“Tommy separated his hollandaise, and he’s real upset about it,” Nick said. “Isn’t that right, Tommy?”
Behind him, Tommy gulped in a breath of air, then bobbed his head. “Yes. Separated. Uh-huh.”
“Uh, Joplin? Right?” Riley said, still wrestling with Burt. “What can we do for you?”
