Instead, he just shrugs, and I’m totally fuckin’ confused. Speed was always the wiseass of the club. Quick-witted and brutally sarcastic, taking no prisoners and nothing serious. Him dressed in this uniform would’ve given us hours of jokes and comebacks.
“So, you’re delivering pizza now?”
“Not just pizza. On the weekends during the season, I deliver to all the football parties, plus all the catered parties all year long. Even houses outside Atlantic City. I’m the only one the boss trusts with the big orders.”
My lips curve into a smile, then I realize the fucker is seriously proud. “Wow, that’s . . . great.”
Speed could trick out a bike and do rebuilds better than anyone I know. His daring stunt riding on anything with two wheels was legendary. Fucker could do a wheelie while standing on the saddle, so why the hell is he delivering pizza?
“Been doin’ this for about a year. I also drive an Uber, and now I know all the best routes around the city and how to avoid the traffic on the weekends.”
“That’s pretty good.” I keep waiting for him to bust out laughing in his usual snarky way, telling me he’s spitting bullshit—but he never does.
“Hey, Rick,” the same woman stalks over and points at the receipts, “you better get going with these orders.”
I realize she’s talking to Speed using his legal name, a name he hadn’t used in years.
“We’re not paying you to bullshit with your friends,” she adds, then frowns at me.
“Yeah, sure.” Speed scoops up the slips of paper, then hefts up a thermal bag, assumedly filled with pizzas.
“I’ll see you,” Speed throws over his shoulder.
I stay rooted in place for at least two minutes trying to decipher what the hell just happened. My six-foot-one balls-to-the-wall-road-captain is a fuckin’ pizza delivery guy.
I follow him into the lot and watch him yank open the door of a beat-to-shit Toyota. No fuckin’ way that’s what he’s driving now.
I catch up to him, and he gives me a confused look. “Okay, we’re alone now, so quit the bullshit ‘cause there’s no way you’re delivering fuckin’ pizza.”
“I told you I drive an Uber too.”
“C’mon,” I point to the pizza bag, “whaddya really got in there?”
He gives me a blank look. “Pizza.”
I yank the bag out of his hands and lay it on the roof of the car, unzip it and peer inside. “Shit, it really is pizza. What gives with you?”
“Whaddya mean?”
I wave my hand over the stupid t-shirt and cap. “This.”
“Everybody who delivers has to wear it.”
“Are you sure you’re the same guy I had to drag outta Sinners ‘cause you were bangin’ strippers two at a time in the back hallway?”
His face brightens, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, then flattens. “That was a long time ago.”
I give him a once-over. “Not that long.”
“Things are different now.”
“We used to rock those places, not stumbling in until dawn. Shit, we had our own table at Sinners.”
“Hey,” Speed jerks his chin toward the pizzeria, “this place is open till five a.m., so I pull some late nights here too.”
Was he really comparing delivering fast food to balling strippers two at a time?
He shrugs again, and I’m getting a weird sensation like body snatchers took over his mind, leaving this sorry excuse of a shell behind.
