Even though it was an early Monday afternoon and school didn’t get out for summer for another four weeks, the place was crawling with teenagers. I had to wonder if their parents knew they weren’t in school. That’s the father in me talking. It’s an attitude I’m cultivating in preparation for Annabelle’s teen years.
The music from It, the place where I worked, pulsed through the soles of my feet long before I passed the chain bookstore and overpriced ice-cream shop next door. The sign propped out on the sidewalk proclaimed IT’S SPRING CLEARANCE! and I cringed inwardly. Just as I expected, the small store was packed solid. I squeezed my way through the door, nodding slight apologies to the tattooed and pierced customers in my way.
The roar of confined life-forms echoed off the ductwork in the unfinished ceiling above, tripling the noise level in an instant. People were stuffed into every conceivable space between the already cramped clothing racks. Strobe lights and black lights flickered everywhere, promising headaches to the unprepared. Behind the artfully arranged display merchandise, the black brick walls were splashed with fluorescent blobs of color, glowing happily under the strange lighting.
“Hey, old dude!” Kristyn’s voice carried over the heavy metal music somehow, and I realized she was actually standing on the counter to see over the crowd. Her hair was dyed raven black again, with streaks of hot pink fading into a deep purple. Two days ago, it had been green and blue.
“Nice hair, Kristyn!” The music thumping through the speakers changed to “Voodoo Child,” and I waved to whoever was deejaying in acknowledgment. We all have our theme songs, and that had been deemed mine because they knew I liked Hendrix. (I suspect it was also the oldest music they could think of. Most of the kids I worked with were too young to remember the eighties, let alone Jimi Hendrix.)
By hook or by crook, I skirted the ever-rotating tower of body jewelry (for the piercing of your choice) and worked my way to the back and the relative sanity of the break room. I lingered only long enough to dump my wallet into my employee locker and grab my lanyard with my name tag and assorted snarky buttons. The name tag, too, said OLD DUDE. At thirty-two, I was the oldest employee in the district. Even Kristyn, ostensibly my boss, came in a few years shy of thirty.
Between the back room and the front counter, I handled three questions on prices, and one on fashion (which is such a bad idea, trust me). Abe was manning the stereo at the back of the store and trying to keep the shoplifters from making off with our CDs. I stopped long enough to have him nod me toward a couple he was keeping a particular eye on, then moved on. I finally arrived at the register to find that Kristyn had made a new friend. The dark lanky teen gave me a sullen look as he leaned against the wall.
“Rook for you to train, old dude.” Kristyn gave me a wicked grin. “This is Paulo. Paulo, this is old dude.”
I stuck out my hand to shake. I’m not totally devoid of manners. Paulo took it, glaring at me from under a mop of shaggy black hair and squeezing harder than was strictly necessary. Ah, so that’s how it was going to be. I held his grip, sizing him up. There was a distinct lack of piercings and tattoos about him, unusual for employees of It. He was of a height with me, all lean whipcord muscle, but there was no tone to it. Most likely he was a runner; maybe he lifted weights in a high school gym class. But he didn’t move like a fighter. I wasn’t worried. “Nice to meet you, Paulo.”
“Encantada.” It was said with a sneer of sarcasm, but the accent of a native Spanish speaker. I made a mental note to have Mira brush me up on Spanish cuss words. Never hurts to know.
“Now, don’t let his age fool you,” Kristyn advised Paulo. “Old dude is a baaaaad man. He works security consulting on the side. All kung fu and stuff.” Well, at least she thought that’s what I did on the side. It was as good an explanation as any for why I left town abruptly and came home in bandages on a regular basis. I even had permits and licenses to make it all official, thanks to Ivan.
If Paulo was impressed, it didn’t show.
Kristyn was rapidly getting swamped, and I slid into the register next to her. “I didn’t know we were hiring.”
“Chelsea no-called again today, and I’d had it. Then Paulo walked in. It was like destiny!” My punk-haired boss gave me a cheeky grin, and I could only chuckle.
“Does he at least have some retail experience?” I hated training rookies from scratch, and she knew it.
“Nah,” she said, and my heart sank. “But he’s hot, and that’s what the girls want.” True enough, our young, brooding Latino was getting more than his share of admiring looks from the panting throng.
“If being hot is a hiring requisite, how the hell do I still have a job?”
Kristyn gave me a wink as she handed a customer’s card back. “You’re hot in an old-hippie kinda way.”
“Gee, thanks.” I smirked, bagging up some purchases to hand across the counter. “You do realize I’m about thirty years too young to have actually been a hippie, right?”
“Bah, hippie’s in the soul.”
Well, if hippie was the worst thing in my soul, I was doing pretty darned good.
Between the two of us, we managed to clear out the mob, one rabid customer at a time. By the time the crowd thinned, the other five employees had arrived for the monthly employee meeting.
Chris—a gargantuan teen whose six-foot-oh-my-God height allowed him to see most of the store at a glance—took over the register while the rest of us gathered around Kristyn. Paulo found a clothing rack to sulk against. I was starting to wonder whether he could stand up unaided. Maybe the sullen slouch was a medical condition.
The first announcement was the hiring of Paulo, prefaced by Kristyn’s assertion that “Chelsea will not be joining us again for the rest of her life. She pissed me off for the last time.” The dark boy gave everyone the same indifferent glower by way of greeting. Good to know it wasn’t just me.
“Spring Clearance will run through Sunday, and on that day we’ll have an extra ten percent employee discount tacked on.” Kristyn shuffled through a stack of e-mails, while the kids murmured amongst themselves. I eyed some of the clothing racks myself. You could never have too many T- shirts with witty sayings such as SOULS TASTE LIKE PEEPS. That one always made me laugh, but I’m pretty sure some of my clients wouldn’t have shared my amusement.
“And Sierra Vista management has asked me to review storm procedures with you, since we’re hitting tornado season again, and they’re predicting a bad front moving in this weekend.” Everyone groaned. “C’mon, guys, I gotta do this. Cut me some slack.” Kristyn gave a long-suffering sigh, and the rabble quieted.
“In case of a tornado warning, which means that a tornado has actually been sighted on the ground—”
“The exits are hereherehereherehere anywhere!” The kids cracked up as Abe channeled Aladdin’s genie and Kristyn swatted him with her papers.
“Okay fine, smart-ass, you do it.” She shoved the e-mails into his hands.
Abe cleared his throat solemnly and proceeded to read the instructions in what was possibly the worst British accent I have ever heard. “Please direct customers to the designated storm shelter areas, and lock the doors to your businesses. All public restrooms and storage hallways are to be considered storm shelters. Once there—”
“Put your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye.” Leanne tossed in her two cents that time, and Kristyn threw up her hands.
“I tried. If you all get blown to Oz, it isn’t my fault.”
The meeting was dismissed to a chorus of “I’ll get you, my pretty!” Poor Kristyn. She’s actually a good manager, but riding herd on that bunch of miscreants was nearly impossible when they were all together. Such were the hazards of a relaxed work environment.
She caught my eye and gave me a tired smile. “You’ll take care of them, old dude, right?”
“I always do.”
For the record, upon my death, I want to be nominated for sainthood. I’m not Catholic. I’m not e
ven sure I’m Christian. But it might do the church a world of good to admit a beer-drinking, brawling, hippie samurai into their ranks. And after I spent the entire afternoon trying to train Paulo on a register, getting no more than a grunt or two from him in response, I damn well deserved some recognition. Thankfully, Kristyn shooed Paulo out the door at six, and after that, my evening was infinitely better.
As Mira predicted, I wound up working past my shift, helping Kristyn and Leanne with the mad clearance rush. Believe it or not, I like my job. I get to listen to all kinds of music, see interesting people, and I don’t have to wear a tie or cut my hair. It’s perfect!
No one blinks if I have to take off with no notice, and I can usually give them at least a day or two. They’re used to my coming back on crutches or otherwise injured, and it’s not really a physically taxing job when I’m limping around. And the kids, bless their little hearts, believe every lie I tell them about what I’ve been doing. Nothing like a bunch of teenagers to swallow your BS story hook, line, and sinker.
And if I am being wholly honest, I don’t do well taking orders from people I don’t respect. That particular tendency of mine tends to limit my long-term employment options. I have an extensive list of “You just didn’t work out” dismissals to prove it, not to mention that a BA in philosophy doesn’t open a lot of doors. Yeah, I had strikes against me from all directions.
On my break, I borrowed the store phone to call and check on my girls. It was a nightly tradition to tell Annabelle good night as Mira tucked her in.
“When are you coming home, Daddy?” I could hear the sleepiness in her little voice. She was fighting to stay awake even now.
My heart always breaks when she says things like that. “You’ll be asleep when I get home, button. Daddy has to work.”
“Can you stay home tomorrow? I miss you.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart. You go to sleep. Have sweet dreams.” She passed the phone to Mira. “Has she been good tonight?”
“Of course. She helped with the smudging. Then we had a tea party with her stuffed animals.”
I smiled wistfully. “Wish I could have seen that. Anything else of import happen?”
“We got a notice from the hospital.” My stomach dropped. It definitely wasn’t her “good news” voice. “The insurance company denied that last claim again.”
I sighed and rubbed my temples, a faint headache springing up. “I was afraid they were going to do that. What’s the damage?”
“A little more than two grand.”
I felt like banging my head against the wall. Damn bureaucracy. “Well, at least we have it. I’ll just pick up a few more shifts here for the next couple months to make up for it. I’m sorry, baby.”
“Can’t be helped. We’ll find a way.” That’s my girl, ever the optimist. “I’ll leave dinner in the microwave for you.”
“Thanks, baby.” I worked because I had to, but sometimes I felt I was missing my daughter’s life.
“Hey, old dude. You still need Saturday off?” Kristyn was poring over next week’s schedule as I came back out of the break room to straighten the shelves.
“Yeah, it’s my mom’s birthday. I’m a dead man if I don’t show up.”
“You get her a present yet?”
I eyed her suspiciously. “You been talking to Mira?”
She grinned under her punk bangs. “Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
“You still don’t have a present, do you?”
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it tomorrow.” Or the next day, maybe. It was only Monday, for Pete’s sake. I had until Saturday.
We closed at ten. I didn’t leave the store until almost eleven. There was one car I didn’t recognize in the parking lot, a dark-colored Escort, and I waited for the girls to get in their cars before I took off. I could see the featureless silhouette of the driver, just sitting there, and though I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, I operated on the assumption that my own male presence was enough to ward off trouble.
Kristyn laughed at me. “It’s not like every strange car is a serial killer waiting to pounce, old dude.”
I only shrugged and stood next to my truck until they pulled out onto the street. Sure, the odds of Jack the Ripper jumping out of that particular car to wreak havoc were slim. But slim isn’t impossible, and an honorable man takes care of those around him. If I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t be who I am.
I turned out toward the highway, and happened to see the Escort pulling out of the parking lot, too. See? It was just an employee of another store going home for the night like the rest of us.
My usual route to and from work involves minimal highway exposure. There are several quite serviceable back roads that point toward home, and I don’t have to deal with the traffic. No one in his right mind would cruise the steep hills in the dark when he could buzz along at light speed on the freeway. I guess no one ever pointed out that the joy is in the journey, not the destination.
When I glanced back to see another car leave the highway right behind me, I was understandably surprised. Encountering another set of headlights on this stretch at this time of night was unusual, to say the least.
Mostly out of mild curiosity, I kept checking my rearview mirror, waiting to see where it turned off. There were many residential additions on the way, and I kept expecting the car to duck into one of them at any moment.
Instead, it seemed intent on catching up to me. And if I considered my speed on the dark, narrow road unwise, this guy was downright suicidal. I watched with ever-growing concern as the car continued to edge up on my back bumper without regard for anyone’s personal safety.
I let up on the gas, thinking that he’d pass me if he was in that much of a hurry. Wrong idea.
At first, I didn’t understand why I felt a sudden shudder through my steering wheel. Only on the second thud did I realize there wasn’t something wrong with my truck. The bastard behind me was actually ramming my bumper! “What the fu—” My teeth cracked together as he hit me again, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly to stay on the narrow road. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Seemingly in answer, the small dark car nudged my truck again, and I fought the wheel to keep the front end pointed south. Tree branches scraped down the side of the truck and I felt the loose soil on the side of the road give way. I yanked hard on the wheel, swerving into the other lane to avoid the ditch. “Buddy, if you dent my truck . . .” What the hell was this asshole’s problem? With one hand, I reached into the door well for my knife and laid it on the seat beside me.
I know, they always say don’t get out of the car in a road-rage incident, but I’d be damned if I let this guy run me off the road, then sit there unarmed, waiting for him to come back with a gun or something.
There was one little lonely stop sign out in the middle of god-awful nowhere. As I barreled toward it, I frantically begged anyone else out driving in the night to be anywhere else. Fate or whatever was with me, and there was no one there as I blew past the sign without stopping. All four tires left the road as we jumped the top of the steep hill.
As close as he was, and with the headlights glaring, I couldn’t see the plate number. Even the color eluded me, in the absence of working streetlights. Would it kill the city to put some lights out here? The streets ahead were better lit, however, and I sped up, anxious to get the car behind me into the light. I most definitely did not want to stop out here in the dark with no witnesses.
Of course, getting to better lit streets involved staying on the street in the first place. The next hit almost put me in the ditch again despite my best efforts. If I could just make it to the top of the next hill, there would be people below—and lights. And maybe cameras at the intersection to get this jackassery on tape.
Whoever the guy was, he was obviously not ready for his close-up. As we crested the last hill, the brightly lit intersection below us, he whipped into the oncoming lane and zoomed around me. The light tu
rned red, and he barreled through it to the tune of honking horns, leaving me to slam on the brakes and skid to a stop. There was no license plate on the back of the little car, but it was definitely a dark blue Ford Escort. The one from the parking lot?
The light cycled slow enough that I was almost done shaking by the time it went green again. I couldn’t even think of any suitable curse words, I was so unnerved. Freakin’ drunk sonsabitches. Damn high school or college kids, probably, thinking it was some great prank. Little jerks were going to kill somebody like that. I thought about calling the police, but it seemed futile without a plate number. Finally, I resolved to call my brother-the-cop in the morning, and let it go at that.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t watching behind me as I drove on toward home. Last thing I needed was some little punks egging my house or breaking my windows or something. Not to mention I’m pretty sure scaring the hell out of Mira would be hazardous to their continued well-being. But there was no one back there, and I arrived without incident.
Climbing out of the truck in the garage, I immediately went to inspect for damage. The corner of the license plate was a little bent, but that could have happened long before. Other than that, there wasn’t a mark on her. “Atta girl.” I patted the fender affectionately, some of the tension going out of my shoulders. At least my baby wasn’t hurt.
The house was dark when I got inside, and it smelled of sage and enchiladas. It figured that I’d work late. She hadn’t told me it was enchilada night.
Mira, the most perfect woman in the world, left me a plate in the microwave. Her enchiladas were even better reheated, and I wolfed them down as quickly and quietly as possible, lurking in front of the bay window in the living room. Nothing stirred outside; no cars, no people, nothing. Somewhere, there was an owner of a small dark car who was no doubt congratulating himself on giving some perfect stranger the scare of his life.
A Devil in the Details Page 5
