“Eleven?”
“Eleven,” I said. “Maybe ten forty-five, if the lights are good.”
“Fine,” he said. “Eleven.”
I had them at his back door by ten-fifty. He was standing in the kitchen in his apron, and when he saw me carrying in the boxes, he didn’t say thank you. He handed me a foil tray of lasagna to take home.
“For your trouble,” he said gruffly.
When I got back to the warehouse, Sheldon was standing in the doorway of his office, eating sunflower seeds.
“Heard you had a visit from Castellano,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Heard you drove his order over yourself.”
“Yes, sir. It was our mistake. I didn’t want him losing his catering job over it.”
“Why didn’t you get Kyle to do it?” he asked. “He’s the one who pulled the wrong pallet.”
“Because Mr. Castellano was standing in front of me,” I said. “Not Kyle. And he needed somebody to fix it, not somebody to blame.”
