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“That’s what fall guys do, Foster.”
“I know, I know, but—”
“We may not need one, but we should have it set up in case Burnet double-crosses us.”
“Yeah, okay,” Brian said. “It’s probably a good idea. But who?”
“The town drunk, otherwise known as Joe Maxwell.”
Disbelieving that Rusty could be serious, Brian switched his cell phone from one damp hand to the other.
For days leading up to tonight, he had been a nervous wreck.
Actually, since the day Rusty Dyle had approached him with his heist scheme, Brian had been teetering on the borderline of a complete meltdown. It wasn’t as though he and the sheriff’s son were close friends who had been blood brothers since childhood and trusted each other implicitly.
They had met only a few months ago, and it had been Rusty, with his engaging swagger, who had suggested that they “hang out.” That invitation to camaraderie was a startling and flattering first for Brian. Nobody had ever asked him for companionship. He didn’t have an appealing personality. Indeed, it was blah, which was a drawback to making friends, or so his mother had hammered home to him. Daily.
Her assessment had been shared by his first employer, who, after Brian had been on the job for only three months, had called him into a closed-door meeting, during which he had described Brian as “unprepossessing,” and then had fired him for failing to show initiative. He didn’t foresee the likelihood of Brian acquiring a go-getter spirit. Ever. Basically: Make yourself scarce.
That having been his first job after graduating junior college, it was an inauspicious launch of his professional life.
Following his dismissal, he had spent an anxious month of unemployment before seeing the online notice of an open position in Penton, Texas, for Welch’s Mercantile. Never having heard of either, he had looked them up on the internet.
Both the town and the position at Welch’s had seemed to Brian to be as unprepossessing as he. But for a young man who’d grown up in the Steel Belt, the geographical area with its dense pine forests and mystical-looking lake held some allure. Also, it promised escape from the only house in which he had ever lived, with his pipsqueak father and domineering mother.
He had submitted his application, figuring that a relocation to Texas was about as adventurous as he was likely ever to get.
Little had he known then.
He survived the rounds of interviews conducted over the telephone and was awarded the position. He packed his car to the gills and made the move. He signed a lease on a duplex whose best feature was that the rent included a cable hookup.
The hearty friendliness of the people, as well as their accent, would take some getting used to. He had a virulent gastrointestinal experience with his first Tex-Mex meal. But the mystifying lake, whose lore included a sasquatch, lived up to the pictures he had seen online. His new situation held promise.
That was dashed on his first day on the job.
His boss had shaken his hand, welcomed him to the accounts receivable/payable department. Then, with badly capped teeth glittering, he had said, “You mess up, you’re history.”
He was a strutting, bandy-legged tyrant to whom management and terrorism were synonymous. Brian was a perfect target for his scornful putdowns. Within a week of his employment, Brian had become miserable.
However, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—pack up and go home and have his mother tell him, “I told you so.” He resolved to tough it out for as long as he could stand it, telling himself that there would come a day.
That day had come in early January.
He had returned to the store from his lunch break when he’d collided, literally, with a young man with spiky orange hair.
“Hey, sorry, man,” he’d said. “Didn’t see you. This damn thing.” He’d shifted the cumbersome box from beneath his left arm to beneath his right. “My mom sent me to get a refund.” He’d snorted contempt. “My dad’s idea of a romantic Christmas present for her. Pots and pans. Seriously? Even I know better.”
Unable to think of anything else to say, Brian remarked that the cookware set had been on sale through Christmas Eve.
“Probably was when my old man bought it. Last minute, you know. Anyhow, she sent me to bring it back. Didn’t know there would be such a damn long line.”
He’d leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I thought about walking the box back to the housewares section and just leaving it there on the shelf, screw the refund. But they’ve got cameras everywhere,” he’d said, glancing up at the ceiling. “If somebody saw me do it and wondered What the hell is he up to?, I’d have to spend time explaining. Just as well stand in line.”
“The cameras aren’t real. They’re for show.”
“Get out!” the young man had exclaimed in a stage whisper. “They’re fakes?”
“Yes.”
