Hot Stuff by Don Bruns

say much for Mikey’s taste in music.
    Checking the parking lot, I saw no sign of the black Jag, so I ducked back in and strolled down the hall, past the walk-in with two padlocks on it. I glanced up and saw one of the cameras, the lens pointing right at me. Instinctively I smiled, ran my fingers through my hair and continued to the employee locker room. No James. His locker was closed, but the padlock was open.
    â€œJames. You back here?”
    There was no answer, just the backbeat of the recording echoing down the hall from the kitchen.
    â€œJames?”
    Nothing. And then I heard a cough. Faint, like the sound ofsomeone softly clearing his throat. There was no one in the locker room. Two restrooms were at the far end of the area, and I pushed open the men’s door.
    â€œJames.”
    Stall doors were open and there was no one there.
    Pushing open the women’s door, I hesitated, then stuck my head in.
    â€œSomebody here?”
    One stall door was closed. There was no sign of anyone’s legs under the door, and even though it was doubtful someone was there, I almost walked in. One night on the job probably didn’t give me the right to intrude. Into the women’s restroom or anywhere else.
    â€œJames?”
    Then I heard the outside kitchen door open and footsteps, fast, coming my way. Someone jogging, running.
    â€œJames?”
    He rounded the corner, breathless, his eyes wide.
    â€œDude, there’s something very strange going on here.”
    â€œNo shit.”
    â€œNo. I come back here, the lock’s in place, so I open the locker and guess what?”
    I had no idea.
    â€œSomebody’s been in it again. That wooden-handled Wüsthof knife, the apron, they’re gone. Somebody—”
    â€œJames. Where did you get the padlock?” I didn’t remember him buying one. He just announced he had a locker.
    â€œStandard issue. Chef Marty gave it to me as soon as I started.”
    â€œThink, my friend. Marty probably knows that combination. Everyone in the entire restaurant could know that combination. The lock belongs to L’Elfe. It’s their property, right?”
    I saw the surprised hurt look in his eyes. “No, don’t tell me. I’m not that stupid, am I?”
    I kept a sober look on my face.
    â€œDamn. Skip, I swear, I never even thought of it. How did that get by me? Hell, I’ll get my own lock.”
    â€œA little late for that.”
    He stared at the locker for a moment, then grabbed me by my shoulder, turning me around.
    â€œFollow me, man. I want someone else to see this with his own eyes.”
    Giving me a push forward, he headed back out the door.
    â€œWhat?”
    James didn’t say anything as we walked out the door into the parking lot. The black asphalt had soaked up the hot Miami sun and it radiated as we walked twenty feet where James stopped.
    â€œYou’re not going to believe this, amigo.”
    Stepping up to an army-green garbage Dumpster, he grabbed a pole, and forced the top open.
    â€œLook inside.”
    I stepped up on an empty plastic crate and stared down into the slimy empty cavity. Even with the garbage removed the stench of spoiled vegetables and rotting meat was overwhelming.
    â€œNothing there, man. It’s empty.”
    â€œWhat? That’s impossible.”
    James stepped up and looked.
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œWhat did you see?”
    â€œThe apron, the knife, they weren’t in my locker. So I’m thinking, where would someone put them?”
    â€œThe trash.”
    â€œYeah. So on a wild hunch I looked in here. The apron was in there, covered with some boxes and stuff. Then I took thispole,” he pointed to a long wooden rod propped up against the Dumpster, “and I pushed the boxes out of the way.”
    â€œYou didn’t touch anything?”
    â€œNo. No more fingerprints. I didn’t want to contaminate anything. I was going to get some plastic