Sam King looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He held the falsified application just inches away from his face and scrutinized it, his eyes red and bloodshot, looking as if he was struggling to focus, before dropping it down on his desk. He ran a hand over his face, loose skin tugging from his cheek, and stared at Thorn across from him.
“Robert Myers,” he said, his voice belying exhaustion, “what brings you down here?”
Settled into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Thorn stared directly back, unflinching at the new moniker he’d been given.
“New in town, was told you might have some work available, sir.”
King regarded Thorn for another moment before flitting his gaze back to the application. “Says here you were a long-time resident of upstate New York.”
A long nod dipped the top of Thorn’s head. “Yes, sir. My father owned a small farm south of Syracuse and we worked it together. When he passed, I sold it and cleared out.”
Thorn looked King in the eye as he spoke, expelling the fabricated history as if it were the gospel truth. He and Ingram had refined and rehearsed it so many times the day before it came out almost as naturally as his real background.
“Sorry to hear about your father,” King said, his tone detached as he reached out and turned the first page of the application over, skimming through it.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Says here you went to college for a few years,” King said, glancing up to Thorn. “Decided it wasn’t for you?”
“Couldn’t afford it. The farm was already in the red when Pop took sick.” The remainder of the story was left intentionally vague, allowing King to draw his own inferences, to fill in the blanks for himself.
A moment passed as King seemed to be doing just that, weighing the information. “So this would be a temporary gig for you?”
“Not at all,” Thorn said, twisting his head at the neck. “Eventually I would like to finish my degree, but I have no immediate time frame.”
King nodded again and gave the application a final once-over. “That’s a hell of a lot more than most of the guys commit to. You have a preference for days or nights?”
Deep down, Thorn knew he needed the night shift to provide him with the flexibility to actually accomplish what he was there for. At the same time, he couldn’t be that overt, needing King to get there on his own so as to not arouse suspicion.
“I’m well aware of my spot in the pecking order,” Thorn said. “I’m okay with graveyard until I earn my stripes.”
A small smile pulled at the right side of King’s mouth. “When can you start?”
“When can I start, sir?” Thorn returned.
“Tonight at eight work?”
Chapter Fifteen
Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel Page 16
