The Store

by Bentley Little

  In the mid-eighties, The Store's corporate headquarters moved from a nondescript series of offices in El Paso to a huge black twenty-story skyscraper in Dallas that was dubbed The Black Tower by friend and foe alike. Still, there was no attempt made to expand The Store's base, to move into larger cities or metropolitan areas.

  King's reported eccentricity and mysterious private life -- he was rumored to live alone in a concrete bunker under the desert, afraid of being exposed to ultraviolet rays because of the depleted ozone layer, afraid of breathing anything but specially filtered air -- not only created an air of mystique but tapped into the public's never-flagging interest in the Howard Hughesian rich and strange. There was speculation on Wall Street that King was staging all of this in order to gain name recognition and from there move on into other ventures, but he continued his slow progress throughout the country, opening Stores only in small rural towns.

  And now The Store had come to Juniper.

  Bill stopped reading, rubbing his tired eyes. The articles were mostly from financial publications, focusing on the nuts-and-bolts of the business, so the emphasis was not on muckraking or human interest and there was nothing overtly negative about Newman King or The Store. But there was still enough between the lines to put him on guard.

  Bribes, threats, and intimidation? A cult? If those aspects were even mentioned in articles focusing on the financial world, it meant that they were more than merely idle speculation or isolated charges. And combined with his own thoughts, feelings, and observations, they painted a rather frightening picture.

  The phone rang and Bill picked it up. "Hello?"

  It was Ben.

  "Richardson's burned down," the editor said.

  "What?"

  "I just came back from taking pictures. The fire guys're still there. The rain's helping, but the lumber was covered and it went up like a tinderbox."

  "Is --"

  "Richardson's dead. He was trapped in the blaze."

  "Jesus."

  "By the time they got to him and pulled him out, he was gone."

  "What caused it?" Bill asked. "Do they know?"

  Ben didn't answer.

  "Lightning?" he asked hopefully, though he'd neither heard thunder nor seen lightning all afternoon.

  There was a pause. "No," Ben said finally, and there was a note in his voice that Bill recognized and didn't like. "Arson."

  "It's taking over," Bill said, pacing up and down in front of the bed.

  Ginny looked up from her magazine. "What is?"

  "You know damn well what. The Store. Its competitors are disappearing. Or their businesses are burning down." He looked at her. "You don't think that might be just a wee bit on the suspicious side?"

  "Don't yell at me."

  "I'm not yelling!"

  But he was, he knew. He was taking it out on her, although he wasn't mad at her at all. He was frightened. He'd been concerned before, angry, uneasy, but it was the physical presence of that blackened, still-smoking building that made him realize the death and destruction that The Store could cause.

  The Store?

  He was thinking of The Store as a single organism, a monolithic monster, but it wasn't that, was it? It was a corporation, a series of retail outlets scattered throughout the country and staffed by ordinary local people.

  No, it was a structured organization created to follow the whims and carry out the wishes of Newman King.

  That was how he thought of it.

  But why? What was the point of it all? What was the purpose?

  Those were questions he couldn't even hope to answer.

  He thought for a moment, then opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall. "Samantha!"

  Ginny hurried after him. "What are you doing?"

  "Samantha!" He pushed open the door to his daughter's bedroom, walked in.

  She'd obviously been sleeping, and she sat up groggily. "What?"

  "You can't work at The Store anymore."

  That woke her up.

  "I can't --"

  "-- work at The Store," he finished for her.

  "Well, I am."

  "I'm afraid you're not."

  "I'm eighteen," she said. "You can't tell me what to do."

  "As long as you live in my house I can."

  "Then I won't live in your house!"

  Ginny stepped between them. "Come on," she said. "Let's not give any ultimatums or paint ourselves into any corners. Let's all calm down."

  "You cannot work at The Store," Bill repeated.

  "I like working there."

  "You want to read what I read about The Store? You want to hear what I've heard?"

  Sam shrugged in a way that was meant to be infuriating and was. "Not particularly."

  He wanted to hit her, wanted to tell her to get the hell out of the house, then, and not come back. He was filled with an almost blinding rage, and it was his recognition of that emotion, his realization that he was overreacting in a way that was totally inappropriate, that brought him back down to earth.

  He looked at Sam, who was staring at him, holding the covers under her chin. What was wrong with him? What was he thinking? He had never hit either of the girls. Ever. And he had never even been tempted to do so until now.

  This was something he couldn't blame on The Store.

  Could he?

  Shannon poked her head in the door. "What's happening?" she said. "What's all the craziness?"

  "Go back to bed," Ginny told her.

  "I just want to know."

  "It's none of your business. Back to bed."

  Embarrassed, Bill faced Samantha. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "You should be."

  "But I still don't want you to work there."

  "It's my decision. I need the money, and I like my job."

  "We'll talk about it in the morning," Ginny said. She ushered him out the door. "It's my decision," Sam repeated.

  "Like your mom said, we'll talk about it in the morning." Bill closed the door behind him and followed Ginny back to the bedroom.

  2

  Shannon walked into her sister's room after breakfast. Sam was still not up, but she was awake, and Shannon knew that she simply hadn't wanted to face their dad.

  "So what was all that about last night?"

  Samantha looked at her. "His brain snapped."

  "But what was it about?"

  "None of your business."

  "Come on," Shannon said. "Don't you give me that, too."

  "He doesn't want me to work."

  "Why not?"

  Sam shrugged. "Who knows?"

  "It has to be something."

  "Does it?" Sam looked at her. "Why am I even talking to you? Get out of my room."

  "I was thinking of getting a job there, too, this summer."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I was."

  "Didn't I tell you to get out of my room?"

  "I thought you might want to talk --"

  "With you?"

  "Sorry. I forgot what a bitch you are. My fault." Shannon turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  FOURTEEN

  1

  It had been a long time. Cash had died fifteen years ago this coming July, and she had not had a man since. She wasn't complaining. She had never wanted anyone else. Cash had been her husband, and as far as she was concerned, it would be unfaithful of her to make love with another man.

  Still, sometimes she missed it.

  Flo glanced up and down the store aisle to make sure no one was watching, then looked at the selection of massagers and vibrators on the shelf in front of her. There was one that strapped on to the user's hand, another that looked like a rubber ball on a wand, but she found herself focusing on the vibrator on the right, the one that looked like a man's penis.

  "Excuse me, ma'am. May I help you?"

  She jumped at the sound of the voice, turning in embarrassment to face a young man wearing a green Store uniform. She opened her
mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

  "These are nice models here," the young man said. He gestured toward the vibrators. "Top-of-the-line products. Discount prices."

  "I -- I wasn't looking at those," Flo said.

  "Yes, you were." The young man smiled, but there was nothing snide or smirking or hurtful in his smile. Nothing lascivious.

  Lascivious?

  She was old enough to be his grandmother.

  "I --" she began.

  "You're looking for a vibrator." He picked up the middle model, the wand.

  "This one is probably the best if you're going to be massaging your back muscles and those hard-to-reach places. On the other hand, if you're looking to sexually pleasure yourself --"

  "I am not!" She was almost shouting, and she felt the heat of embarrassment flush her face. She quickly glanced around, but they were still alone in the aisle.

  "It's none of our business if you are. And it's nothing to be ashamed of, ma'am. We're here to provide you with the products you need, not to pass judgment on your lifestyle. Our policy is to make sure that everyone finds what they want and that none of our customers are ashamed or embarrassed. If I've made you feel that way, I am truly sorry."

  Flo took a deep breath. "No, I'm sorry. I overreacted."

  The young man placed a familiar hand on her shoulder. "Here at The Store, we have a confidential relationship with our customers. Like priests and lawyers, we do not divulge what is said to us in private. It remains between us and the customer. That is one of the cardinal rules listed in _The Employee's Bible_, and it is why we are able to provide such effective customer service."

  Flo was silent.

  "So anything you say is between me and you. Period." He replaced the wand vibrator and gestured toward the others on the shelf. "Now, if you're really looking for a muscle relaxer . . ."

  "No," she said.

  He smiled. "I didn't think so."

  She looked at him. He was a nice young man, helpful, friendly, easy to talk to. She felt comfortable with him. She trusted him. "Maybe we should start over," she said. "From the beginning."

  He nodded. "Very well." He walked down the aisle, turned, walked back, smiling at her. "May I help you, ma'am?"

  "Yes," she said. "I'd like to buy a vibrator."

  "As you can see, we have several different models for you to choose from."

  "I already know which one I want."

  "And which one is that, ma'am?"

  "That one there," she said, pointing. "The one that looks like a cock."

  2

  Holly missed the cafй.

  She wasn't the only one, either. A lot of the old regulars seemed to be lost, not knowing what to do with their time now that they didn't have a booth bench or a counter stool to park their butts on.

  At least she had a job. As part of the purchase agreement, The Store had promised Williamson that all of the cafй's employees would be kept on. She'd assumed that that meant she'd keep her old position. But The Store had shut down the cafй and had transferred her, the cooks, and the other waitresses to the snack bars in The Store.

  No, not snack bars.

  Eating establishments.

  It just wasn't the same. Aside from the froufrou food and the unfriendly coworkers, the space here was cramped, and she didn't feel comfortable, didn't feel she had room to move around. She also didn't like staring out at shoppers all day long.

  And The Store didn't allow tipping.

  That was her biggest gripe.

  Vernon Thompson had followed her over from the cafй. The Store's espresso bar wasn't quite the same, and the old-timer complained about . . . well, just about everything. But she was there and he was there and at least that provided some sense of continuity, some feeling of home.

  His buddy, though, was gone. The Store had done what nothing else could and had split up the friendship. From what she heard, Buck now spent his days on a barstool at the Watering Hole. She wasn't sure what had happened or why -- and she didn't want to pry -- but she knew that Vern missed his pal, and it was sad to see the old man moping alone on one of those tiny plastic chairs, trying to talk to other customers who were usually too rushed and busy to even give him the time of day.

  She blamed Williamson. Why did that son of a bitch ever have to sell the cafй?

  She patted Vern on the back as she poured him yet another in his endless refills of straight, plain, old-fashioned black coffee, started to pick up the oversized cafй au lait mugs from the empty table next to him, and looked up to see Buck, wearing a cowboy hat and an old longcoat, weaving down the center aisle toward the espresso bar.

  She glanced over at Vern. He'd seen, too, and they both shared a glance.

  Neither of them were sure if this was good or bad, if Buck was coming here to hang out or cause problems, and they waited, unmoving, as he staggered toward them.

  "Vernon!" Buck yelled. "You old peckerheaded son of a bitch! How's it hangin'?"

  Shoppers across the aisle and customers in the espresso bar turned to look at him, but Buck paid them no heed.

  Vern seemed to be unfazed. "Can't complain," he said. "Why don't you draw up a stool, have a sit down?"

  "I will, I will." He turned toward Holly. "Holly! My favorite waitress!

  Ain't this just like old home week!"

  "Sit down," she told him. "I'll get you some coffee, sober you up. On the house."

  "Don't want no coffee!"

  "Lower your voice. People're staring."

  "Don't care!"

  Holly looked at Vern for help.

  "Come on," Vern told his friend. "Don't make a damn scene."

  "I . . ." Buck blinked, looked confused, then quickly recovered. "I want to see the manager!" he announced.

  Holly quickly looked around. "No, you don't, Buck. You're drunk. You either sit down and shut up, or you go home now."

  "I demand to see the manager!"

  "Is there a problem here?" The short, officious man who suddenly appeared next to Holly looked quizzically at Buck. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" "Yeah, goddamn it. You can take me to the store manager."

  "Certainly."

  Holly licked her lips, suddenly feeling nervous. She had never met The Store's manager. As far as she knew, no one had. It was not something that was ever talked about or brought up, but by tacit agreement the manager was never mentioned.

  She didn't know why.

  Now the fact that Buck was going to be taken to him set off a feeling within her that was almost like panic. "He's drunk!" she said.

  The short man turned to face her. She had never seen him before, but the name tag on his suit lapel read MR. WALKER. "I know," he said.

  "I want to see the manager!" Buck demanded. "Now!"

  "But the fact that he's drunk doesn't mean that he has no right to see the manager."

  Buck grinned.

  "This way, please. I will take you to Mr. Lamb. He will take you in to see the manager."

  Holly watched, coffeepot still in hand, as Buck was led straight down the aisle to a door in the far wall. The door opened wide, she saw a stairway leading up, and then the door closed. High up on the wall, near the ceiling, she saw a series of one-way-mirrored windows that she'd never noticed before.

  The manager's office.

  She shivered.

  "What's going to happen?" Vern asked. His voice was low, quiet, and she realized for the first time that he was scared, too.

  That made her even more frightened.

  "I don't know," she said.

  "Could I have some service here?" a man behind her demanded.

  Holly held up her hand. "Just a minute." She put down the coffeepot on Vern's table and, on impulse, started walking down the aisle toward the manager's office. Vern came with her.

  They were nearly to the door when it opened and Mr. Walker emerged. He scurried away, into the hardware aisles.

  Mr. Lamb, the personnel manager, came out seconds later. He quickly
scanned the aisle before him, his gaze locking on Holly's. "Is that your friend who wanted to see the manager?"

  She nodded dumbly.

  His voice was serious, his words orders, but there seemed to be a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Call the paramedics," he said. "I think he's having a heart attack."

  3

  "Everybody's family's crazy," Diane said.

  Shannon shook her head, sighing. "Not as crazy as mine."

  The two of them were walking down the path that led through the forest from Granite Road to The Store parking lot. It was hot, felt like summer already, and Shannon wished they'd stopped off at George's to get a Coke or something before starting off on this trek. She was dying of thirst and the path seemed to be a lot longer than Diane had led her to believe.

  But at least it gave them a chance to talk.

  "My dad makes us say grace before every meal. Jo's a klepto, my brother's a doper, but my dad thinks that if we thank God for the meat loaf, it'll somehow make up for his poor parenting skills and we'll all turn out to be perfect people."

  Shannon laughed.

  "It's not funny."

  "It's a little bit funny."

  Diane smiled. "Well, maybe a little. But the point is, compared to me, you have nothing to complain about."

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "I would. So your dad's a little whacked-out about The Store. Big deal.

  There're a lot worse things he could be."

  Ahead, through the trees, they could see open space. Sunlight on car windshields. Black asphalt and brown brick. The Store.

  "At last," Shannon said. "Civilization."

  "Can you imagine what it must have been like in pioneer days? Traveling for months without seeing another human? Living on, like, a drop of canteen water a day?"

  Shannon shook her head. "I don't even want to think about it."

  They broke through the trees at the side of the parking lot and slid down a short dirt embankment to the asphalt. Diane leading the way, they wound their way through the rows of parked cars toward The Store entrance.

  Suddenly Diane stopped short. "Oh, my God."

  Shannon almost ran into her. "What is it?"

  Diane pointed toward the row directly in front of them. "Mindy."

  Mindy Hargrove, her hair disheveled, her clothes in disarray, was running toward them, away from The Store, crying uncontrollably. Shannon stood next to Diane, staring, not knowing what to do. She hadn't seen Mindy for a long time.