The
day progressed with no drama for Glen all the way into ten in the morning, but
the thoughts of his dead fiancée had rung some bells throughout the day with
the mental drama going on in his garden of the mind. He was never a person to
smoke a cigarette before noon, but he was seriously itching for one. He walked
out of the office with his coat after being asked about a particular issue from
a man working in sporting goods and walked the line out the door for a smoke.
Just around the time Glen started at Ropers after college, there were two brake
rooms, a large non-smoking room and a little smoking room. Due to Michigan’s
laws in smoking in buildings and even bars that were passed over a short period
of time, one would have to walk outside to smoke a cigarette, even during the
brutal Michigan winter.
He
opened the door to be greeted by the bitter Michigan winter wind, and with the
idea that the Michigan winter was coming around the corner, and so were the
holidays. He found a well-known hourly employee sitting there with just a
hoodie on, also with a cigarette.
“Shaun.” Glen greeted.
“Mortal enemy.” Shaun said.
“Working Human Resources is hard enough with
people saying things behind my back.” Glen said while sitting down.
“Well, there is something worse.” Shaun said.
Glen looked over, “Really, what’s that?”
“Holidays coming up.” he said before smoking
his cigarette.
“Actually, for an hourly employee like
yourself, you get more money. You’ll get paid well. I’m salary.” Glen said.
“I’m not referring to that, I’m referring to
how they play the Christmas music twenty-four seven.”
“Oh yes, Holiday music. That’ll get annoying.
I agree with you on that one.”
“Same five or six songs with different singers
and different tempos, yes, we are doomed.”
“Yes,” Glen said with the same sarcasm of
Shaun, “we are doomed.”
He shoved his cigarette butt into the metal
ashtray on the table and said to Glen while standing up, “Break’s just about
done. I gotta go.”
“How’s the Tire Department?” Glen asked.
“It’s going.” Shaun said as he walked away and
into the building.
And there Glen was, all alone and sitting
while the Michigan wind blowing at him. For any other day, it would affect him,
but the thoughts in his head would ring bells that kept the wind as second
nature.
He
thought about how the two went to Metro Beach in Harrison Township two summers
ago and just on the same month she passed. The same setting that was the same
photo Glen has by his bed of him and her. He went on skimming thoughts of the
two holding hands and walking on the beach. The two wore white, Glen wore a
plain white tee and white jean shorts, Sheila wore a white blouse tied up and
white pants. It was a seriously romantic day between the two as they walked on
the warm sands of Metro Beach. They didn’t talk about work, they didn’t talk about
the stresses in life, in which didn’t have too many. All they talked about was
romance and fucking, and the idea that they should have a bundle of joy pretty
soon.
The
beach itself reached over two miles in walking distance and the two walked from
start to finish, and then back to Glen’s Focus. But before then, the two
French-kissed and Glen couldn’t help himself from getting a hard-on. He
connected with the outercourse and rubbed his shlong against her out in public.
But the two didn’t care and continued nevertheless, until a fat woman complained
about the two being too intimate in public. The two laughed it off and went
into the Focus and the two drove off, with the fat woman trying to give chase.
He
stopped himself from the thought, and ironically, grew some wood with that
thought. The quick look around followed to see no one around. What a relief, it would be horrible if a
female employee walked out to have a smoke and see the male human resources
employee daydreaming in the cold and growing some wood. He thought that thought
and his wood would slimmer down, along with that thought of that fat woman who
chased the two away, which worked much better.
He
pulled out his cell phone and saw that he has been on break for about seven
minutes. In the Ropers salary employee handbook, there was a paragraph about
breaks among salary employees. Although it was in English, it might confuse
some people upon reading it, but in translated to salary employees are allowed
to break whenever they want. Glen himself tried not to abuse the policy, his
counterpart Barbara DeVore would. For some revenge, he decided to make a phone
call to Jimbo.
Jimbo picked up, “Hello?”
“Wake up.” Glen said.
“Been up, since 8am, I’m in front of the
laptop now.”
“You’re always in front of the laptop.”
“Hey listen, we climbed up a rank in
HockeyScores, the overall rank. We are in 5th.”
“If it was over, how much would that bank us?”
“Uh… two hundred bucks.”
“We need first, that gets up ten grand.”
He scoffed, “I’m trying Glen. First place has a
commanding lead.”
“We got time, it ends in the all-star break,
right?”
“Right.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Jasmine’s okay. She went out.”
“I hope she is suited up well, its cold
outside.”
“I know, I was just out there earlier getting
me some chocolate milk. How come you’re calling, if I might ask?” Jimbo asked
with a dreary tone.
Glen sighed, “Just thinking about your sister.
You are allowed to ask me why I’m calling.”
“Well, because, when my mom calls and I say
that, she gets mad.”
“Why?” Glen chuckled.
“Well… I don’t know.”
“Sounds like she wants control.”
“You always say that.”
Glen didn’t want to argue that point, although
he was winning it and went back to the subject at hand, “Listen, um, you know
that memorial that happened… a few months ago?”
“Yeah, I remember. You know Glen, I don’t like
thinking about these things.”
“I guess I can’t help it, sorry.”
“Why does everybody keep bringing this up?”
“Whoa, Jimbo… I” Glen tried.
“You know, my mom brings it up all the time,
even at work. I’m just…”
“Jimbo, listen…” Glen trying to stop Jim from
a potential nervous breakdown.
“No, Glen, I just sick of all this emotional
shit going on. Every time mom shows up, she mentions it and cries and cries and
cries.”
“Jim, she’s just upset over it, I am, you are,
and we all are.”
“Yeah, but me and you, we got over it quickly,
she’s still fucking fuming about it.”
“Your mom is an emotional person.”
“…and I hate that. I hate the she just bugles
in here on some of my days off. I hate that.”
“Listen…okay, I’ll stop. I… I just wanted to
talk and I called the wrong person. I sorry I brought it up.”
Jimbo scoffed over the phone.
“I know you are trying to be a man about it,
you mom is just a caring person and slightly dramatic.”
“Slightly is an understatement.”
“Perhaps so, just do what you need to do with
our hockey scores team. We want to big prize. How much is 2nd and 3rd?”
“Uh, 2nd is $3000 and 3rd
is $1000.”
“Okay, let’s get the first place. How far from
we are from 4th place?”
“Uh… let me see… uh just one point.”
“Alright, keep it going with the players who
are puck-hogging starts. That’s what we need. And also a few of our Red Wings.”
“You know I’ve got this.” Jim said.
“Alright, goodbye.” Glen said.
Glen knew of Jimbo’s living situation, he and
his younger sister who also suffers from a mental illness, lived in a trailer
park in Clinton Township, a township southeast of Shelby. It was funded
primarily by his mother and also the social security disability money that Jim
gets and his sister gets. However, Jim’s money from the government was less
than his sister, for he works. And the
disability is also due to mental illness.
He
would also think that his mother was also suffering from a mental illness,
however, she was very successful for one who may have it. Todd? Well, mental
illness among him isn’t out of the question; he is a 27-year-big kid who had
the high school bully mentality with him. And finally, with the oldest, the
late Sheila Rucker, Glen couldn’t say she had a mental illness, and he would
attest that it probably started with Todd, then Jimbo Raynor, then Jasmine
Raynor. After having Todd, the then
Colleen Rucker (nee Herbers) and Thomas Rucker divorced and she met Jim Raynor senior,
who was told by Sheila that the Raynor family had a history of mental illness.
Seven years after Jasmine’s entrance to this world, the then Colleen Raynor
divorced Jim senior, another marriage and quick divorce after, she next went to
a Robert Warnock.
Glen
grew up with a strict-Mormon mother who caused serious drama to a kid who was
losing faith, and Sheila grew up with mentally ill people running wild. The two
could understand that grown-ups could be wrong too, even though school and
morally-well adults told them otherwise. They felt lied too, and that was why
the two bonded.
He
finished up his cigarette and prepared himself to work mode again, he needed to
run away from the thought process.
At
5:30pm, Glen was nearing the end of tirades of paperwork; lots and lots of
memos particularly for each department on how to handle the holidays. To Glen,
this kind of work was mindless and idiotic. But yet, Roper’s was paying him an
annual salary of $71,056, with the little extra he makes from his gambling’s
and the dividends for his investments. He was in the process of correcting the
second to last memo for the women’s department until a female entered the
office.
Glen regarded her with the thought, ‘don’t let
it be sexual harassment’ and said, “Hi, how may I be of service?”
“Um yes, I work in shipping and receiving,”
the woman said, “I’m concerned about a couple of employees.”
“I see, what’s your concern?”
“Well, I have spoken to the manager about
this, and…”
“You mean Team Leader?” Glen using the proper Ropers
context, as a salaried employee he had to use it, even though he strongly
disagreed with it, similar to most Ropers employees.
“Yes, uhh, there are two black employees who
often curse and swear. They don’t do their jobs at times and I’ve also heard
them use racial epithets against white people.”
“I see; do you have the names of these
employees?”
“One is named Mario and the other is named
Shaun Kurland.”
“You mean Mario Carnevale?”
“Yes.”
Glen looked to his computer, “Yes, heard their
names before.”
“Quite a lot?” she said with a smile.
“Well, not quite a lot, I’ve heard the names
before. I’ll send an email to the Team Leader about your issue.”
“Yes, but this is going on for quite a while,
and the Team Leader doesn’t seem to care, he’s black himself.”
This kind of thing about an angry employee was
nothing new to Glen, but he had to play it by the book.
“Okay, Brooks Rowlett is your Team Leader, I
will talk to him personally about the issue at hand and I’ll inform you myself
of what happens. I have known Brooks for a few years and I will speak to him
when I come in the morning.”
“Okay, is Barb here?”
Glen shook his head, “Uh no, Barb has left for
the day, she will be here earlier than me in fact tomorrow, if you feel more
comfortable to talk to her about it.”
“Okay.” And then she left.
With some paranoia in mind, Glen waited for
her to walk away. Afterwards, he shook his head and said, “Human Resources,
works more well for women than men.”
He put his attention back to the computer with
the wonder on why he took the job. But at the time, it was still available,
while he searched for other opportunities or hoped for promotion.
The phone on his desk had ringed and Glen
picked it up, “Human Resources, This is Glen Fletcher?”
On the other end was some indecent noise similar
to a police scanner, it lasted for three seconds, then followed by a click.
Glen hung-up his end and shrugged to himself,
‘I have a stalker.’
Fifteen
minutes later, Glen was finishing up the final memo with the last words. An
array of relief came to him at the same time his cell phone ringed ‘I Hope You
Dance.’ With one hand on the keyboard, he used the other to pull out the phone
to see a number he wasn’t familiar with. Glen sighed and shook his head at
this. He then looked over to the doorway, seeing if anyone was around or
passing by, just Dave from Electronics, a team leader on the way to be a salary
employee. When he passed by, Glen answered the phone but didn’t say hello. For
ten seconds, he heard a police scanner of a male and female talking to each
other about pulling over a Kia Soul.
Then Glen said, “Hey, stalker.”
On the other end, “Wha? Oh shit!”
Followed by a click.
His android phone indicated that the call was
over, and he shook his head, ‘For a cop, he’s an idiot.’
After
the madness of work came to an end, Glen walked out of the Employees area
section and onto the shop floor of the very large Ropers of Shelby Township, in
the heart of the Lakeside Shopping Center. The Ropers was a 24/7 store that
made profits each and every hour, fattening the pockets of the Lords of Ropers
that was responsible for paying nearly a million employees for their services,
and Glen for his service as the Jr. Human Resources manager of one in particular
store. He moved forward onto the crowding store, looking on without wearing his
tag, like he should. But he had a personal score to settle. And he was on his
way.
The
Shoreline Inn was unusually busy for a November Wednesday that was beginning to
be seriously chilly night. The bar wasn’t filled, but the dining area was
nearly complete with people. It was a combination of a couple of specials going
along with a Michigan Basketball College game vs. Ohio State. Michigan, being a
college that drew out great minds and wealthy salaries mainly, had some alumni
in the high-class St. Clair Shores wanting to watch the game at the bar and
with the hopes that the team destroys the Buckeyes with a passion. Although the
bar was filled, the noise was unusually low with a TV speaker just going over
the chatter.
Along
with many guest in the bar mostly wearing Michigan sweaters and coats, was also
a Saint Clair Shores cop in uniform, being boisterous with a man about
five-foot-three man wearing a Michigan winter coat and blue under that.
“You know, you are going to lose, Michigan
will not win by twenty. I think you being in Michigan is giving you too much
confidence.” Juby said.
“I disagree with you, officer. Michigan will
kick the hell out of Ohio State.” The man countered.
“Don’t use that language around me; I’m an
officer of the law.” Juby said with intimidation.
The man bought that and kept his mouth shut.
“Be prepared to lose five-hundred dollars.”
Juby said.
The man shook his head with a semi-smile.
Juby didn’t like that and said, “You think I’m
wrong there, midget?”
Then suddenly behind him, “Stalker!”
It gave Juby a noticeable jump and he turned
to see who was responsible for that insult in the lew if a funny off-tone
Brooklyn accent and he saw Glen.
Glen appeared to be drunk with his own
facetious mood and stepped closer to him, “Why y’all calling me at four in the
morning, stalker?”
Juby gave out a little hesitation with a sip
of his beer; to anyone it would look like he is searching on his index for the
right insult, but asked, “You’ve been drinking there, shitface?”
Glen chuckled and walked to the bar to see the
balding man and snapped his fingers, “beer me.”
The man handed him a bottle of Budweiser.
He then looked at Juby and took a drink, “Now
I am.”
“Well, with a little dickhead like you, I can
see a very low alcohol tolerance.”
“Augh shit, man” Glen said, he proceeded to
put his arm around Juby, but he walked back and got aggressive.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me. You wanna assault
charge?”
People at the bar and some people in the
dining area began to notice, including the balding bartender.
Glen put his hands up in a defensive matter,
“Hey, hey, hey… well all friends here, besides you calling me at four in the
morning and at my job. But let me tell you this,” Glen sat down on a stool, “if
y’all gonna call me and make one of these creepy phone calls, make sure you
damn scanner ain’t on.”
“It’s because you’re being investigated… by
the Saint Clair Shores Police Department.”
“One officer, not the whole department.” Glen
said.
“No, it is the whole department.”
“No it ain’t, and even if it is, you ain’t got
a whole lot.”
“I can get a whole lot even if it isn’t. Who
the hell is going to believe you? Have you ever heard of the Patriot Act?”
“Yeah, I heard of that. I think around 9/11
and yesterday as well.”
Juby began to smile with a nod, “Yeah, the
Patriot Act, gives me,” while pointing at himself, “the right to do whatever I
please.”
Glen dropped the stare a little, “Does
gambling considered terrorism? ‘Cause your doin’ it, too.”
“No, but the Patriot Act does allow me to use
suspicion on anyone. And anyone my department pins it on.”
Glen drunk his beer a little and said, “Yeah,
I heard you guys raided a house, tased the hell out of a boy with Cerebral
Palsy about a couple of years back?”
Juby shook his head, “He was in the wrong
place at the wrong time. His parents were drug lords of the city, now the
father is getting his ass raped and the mother is big Bertha’s hoe.”
Glen shrugged, “Well, the war on drugs is
working well for us.”
Juby loosened up a little and got off his
intimating stance and said, “yeah, I bet your punk-ass is doing some drugs too,
you do crack Glen?”
“Oh shit, yes, all the time, stalker” Glen
said sarcastically.
“Yeah, I knew it.” Juby said while drinking
his Bud Light.
“Yep, mm-hmm.” added Glen with the sarcasm
continuing.
The bartender while a little crowd noticing
the commotion began to gather around the two, and Juby noticed and asked Glen,
“Like attracting crowds? You are making yourself look like an ass.”
Glen was about to respond, but the bartender
gave his two cents, “Glen, I haven’t seen you this hammered before, even before
entering my bar.”
“How’d you get down here, Glen, drunk
driving?” Juby asked.
“Yea,” Glen sat in a relaxed matter on his
stool, “been boozing a little.”
“Especially after your girlfriend died due to
a drunk driver? What would she think if she saw you like this?”
Glen took a sip with the drunken movement,
then placed it back on the bar and dropped the drunken slur, “It’s because I’m
not drunk. I just wanted to see how dumb you are to believe that.”
Juby had a distressing face on him, “what the
hell is your problem?”
“I want to know who’s running the city.”
“The Mayor, dummy.”
Glen shook his head, “I think you know what I
mean.”
“Glen, the Mayor runs this city and any
special business interests, you should know that.”
“Such as the eastern Europeans? The
Albanians?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The balding bartender chuckled and shook his
head, some murmuring among the spectators of the Glen vs. Juby debate were
floating in the air.
“Well, you said it’s your turf here, it isn’t
yours, is it?”
“No, I said specifically not… to… not to be in
this bar.” Juby hesitating a little.
Glen looked away to the bartender and asked, “Since
you are the owner or manager of this establishment, am I allowed in here? Have
I caused a ruckus? Besides this?”
“I’m one of the owners, and I say you can
stay. And before this, you’ve haven’t caused drama.”
He looked to Glen, “Well, officer Juby, I
didn’t do anything wrong, why am I being told to stay out of the bar?”
The crowd gathering had favoring towards Glen
and told the officer to leave him alone.
Glen threw a five dollar bill on the bar and
turned to the midget, “what did you bet?”
He said, “I bet that Michigan will win by 20
or more.”
“It’s in the bag.” Glen said while tapping on
his shoulder, he got off the stool and headed out.
Juby heard more jeers and feet defeated. He
had gave a motivated chase after Glen who was walking out of the bar.
Juby
exited the bar and saw Glen walk to his Ford Focus parked by some older cars
closer to the side street. He quickly thought to himself that he is perhaps
making a scene out of this and it would not look good for a uniformed officer,
especially at a losing end of an argument with a civilian. He stopped with his
step with a quick scan of who else may be out there besides him and Glen. No
one was around.
“Hey, Glen.” Juby tried to stop him.
That was a success, before he got to his
Focus, “Yes?”
Glen waited for Juby to walk to him and he
walked way to close.
Before Juby opened his mouth, he heard beside
Glen, “Hey, fuckhead.”
Juby looked over to the voice, there was four
men sitting in that Pontiac Firebird. He knew that all four men were bikers,
just judging by the leather vests and patches on them.
A.B. said, “If you are getting beat down by
Glen, we can do a hell of a lot worse. You don’t run this town, you don’t run
shit. You are property of the Albanians.”
Rudy peered over in the passenger side seat, “That’s
right. Walk your punk ass back in the bar.”
Juby looked at Glen and shook his head. He
gave the white flag and walked away.
The
next day during lunch time at Joe’s Bar was typical as you would see outside,
barely any cars or cycles around. The bikers will be riding at the minimum due
to the upcoming winter, as it showed itself more. Only the brave bikers of the
cold will ride a motorcycle in the upcoming months, or row down to the south,
as most usually do.
The
parking lot would add another car as a Yellow Mustang with three people inside.
They found a spot easily and parked, all three men exited and proceeded to
enter the bar with only three windows with neon signs on, one indicating that
it was open.
The
three men entered; two of them casually dressed and clean shaven with regular
haircuts, while one posed a full beard and mustache and wore a soccer jersey of
a Real Madrid Football Club jersey. For a bar mainly frequented by bikers and
also owned by one, people such as these three men were unusual customers. The
bar wasn’t a biker only bar as others entered just to have a drink and/or a
bite to eat, but the three caught the attention of the barmaid and the two
built men wearing leather jackets sitting at the bar.
The
man wearing the jersey had approached the lovely biker chick barmaid who
happened to be a brunette covered in makeup and asked, “Hiya, could I get a Bud
Light please?”
The people in the bar had noticed the man’s
low and heavy European accent and stared him down.
She then asked, “From the bottle or would you
like a glass?”
“No, from the bottle would do.”
She opened the fridge below the bar and popped
the bottle cap, the aura floated upwards into the air.
As she handed him the bottle, she said, “We
usually don’t see Europeans here.”
The man took a look around, then said to her,
“I’d imagine not, if I’m correct, is this the place I could find people who
represent the American Devils’ motorcycle club? I hear they have a chapter here
in Detroit eight months out of the twelve.”
“Are you a politician?” The barmaid asked.
The three men chuckled while the man talking
shook his head, “No, afraid not. Just a special interest group who has control
of a certain territory, could I talk to the leader if so he is available?”
“You can talk to me.” said a male voice from
the right.
The three looked to A.B., wearing a red
bandana and in a leather coat decorated with the proper patches.
“You the ringleader?” the man asked.
“One of them, call me the Vice President, what
do you want?” A.B. asked.
“Well, we prefer to speak to the ringleader
himself, did he leave for the south? I hear you all do that when winter comes.”
“No, he’s here in Detroit for the moment, but
if you got any questions or inquiries, you can ask me.”
“Okay,” he took a sip of the beer, “my boss
says someone that doesn’t clearly represent your group but raises funds for you
via gambling is walking around our territory.”
“Saint Clair Shores?” A.B. asked while looking
at the TV.
“That’s right. My name is Amel.” He said.
“Albanians?”
He pointed to the man on his right, “he’s
Greek.”
A.B. looked at him, “Oh, I thought people who
ran my country were fucking stupid, but the people who run your country are far
worst. Damn, all the riots and shit. I guess the Euro doesn’t work wonders.” he
finished with shaking his head, and then he looked away.
“That’s why I left and went into a country
that is on its way to that.”
A.B. looked back, “Probably so, however, you
have that shit tone of voice, is it a fight you want?”
“There’s three of us and one of you.” The
Greek said.
A.B. and also the biker at the end of the bar
got up quickly, “now there is two, not good odds but I know I can knock your
ass down, faggot.”
The barmaid noticed what was going on, but
this is something she saw before and continued on with wiping down the bar but
keeping one eye on the melee.
Amel spread his arms to block them, “Whoa,
were not here to fight!”
A.B. and the man at the end now approaching
still stood up, waiting for a move from the enemy.
Amel looked A.B. in the eye and said, “We are
not here to fight, we have a proposition. We don’t wish to cause drama.”
“Well, if you do have one, you keep your
friend on a leash. You don’t walk in a man’s country and disrespect it,
understand motherfucker?”
“We understand and we don’t wish to cause
drama.” Amel assured.
“If you want to negotiate, that fuck leaves, comprende?”
“Okay, I understand.”
He then spoke to the man from Greece in their
language to leave, and so he did. The biker nearby followed while giving A.B.
the intention to keep an eye on him.
“We are sorry about him, but we want to know
why your associate is following him?”
“Because he might do some bullshit to our
bikes or cars, my associate is there to make sure he doesn’t do anything, don’t
take it personal. Now, let’s cut the bullshit,” A.B. took a drink of his beer,
“you saying that you want peace and understanding between us, what do you want
with our money-making friend that has stumbled onto your claimed territory?”
“Like we said, we don’t wish him any harm, in
fact, we like for him to work with us.”
“Of course, I see, I imagine that little pussy
cop isn’t bringing in the dough?”
Amel nodded at that, “Sadly, he isn’t, plus
another one working for me.”
“Replace him with someone else.”
“Well, we might do that, we do have multiple
people working for us, we do a lot of basketball really, and we want help for
hockey and American football.”
A.B. chuckled at the American football, “Yes,
the football? I can see why you guys don’t understand it.”
“No, we understand, we like that sport a lot,
what’s the name of your friend who beat our friend in the hockey game?”
“I’m not naming names. How come you got an
officer working for you guys and he keeps losing? I won’t have a cop help me
with that.”
“He’s not exactly who you think; he had a good
streak going. You’d be surprised about how cops do things these days.”
“Yeah, I know that. But, has it occurred to
you that he may be ready to bust you? Don’t be surprised that one day you are
all hanging out in the coffee shop on a bright sunny day, then next thing you
know, SWAT comes in with guns and holding you down screaming about the money
you didn’t pay Uncle Sam. Saint Clair Shores cops are punks, with itchy trigger
fingers who like to view their suspects as black people.”
“Trust us, we know. We do have a mutual
understanding with the Chief there.”
“Chief Sylvester isn’t someone I would trust.”
“Well, with all that aside, is it possible that
I could speak to this person, we promise you a cut and we will give you that.”
A.B. looked on and took a sip his beer.
The
Blue Ford Focus had found an empty parking spot of one of the billion strip
malls of Metro Detroit, in the city of Saint Clair Shores. Included in this
strip mall was a coffee shop that was independently owned and from the outside
had a couple people sitting by the windows. To the two people exiting the
Focus, they appeared to be from an eastern European country. It would be an automatic
assumption that with an independent coffee shop, this one known as Heroes
Coffee, it was likely to be ruined by an Albanian.
“Well Rudy, let’s see what they want.” Glen
said.
“We can always walk away safely. They’re not
on power trip like us, they just want money.” Rudy said.
“Who the hell doesn’t? But why work with them?”
Glen asked.
Rudy answered, “We could use a piece of St.
Clair Shores as well.”
Glen smiled at that, “Hostile takeover?”
Rudy shrugged, “Perhaps.”
The two entered the coffee shop and saw less
than ten patrons sans a brunette slim female playing duty beyond the bar. It
also contained an elegant fridge display with soft drinks, imported juices and
other baked goods, even Danish. A couple
of flat-screen TVs were at both sides of the shop.
Glen and Rudy were waived by the bearded man
sitting at the round table by the larger TV at the other end of the shop.
Sitting next to him was Juby, in civilian clothes.
Rudy stopped and shook his head.
Glen noticed and asked, “You changing your
mind?”
“No, not yet,” Rudy said, “but I don’t like
that guy.”
“Me either.” Glen said, he continued the walk
to the table and Rudy did the same.
“Hey gentlemen, sit down.” he said with his
low thick accent.
“Are you Amel?” Glen asked while sitting down.
“That’s me.”
Rudy sat next to Juby and said, “I don’t like
you, dude.”
Amel was about to go on with the convo at
first, but paused at that one.
“Sorry about this, but your friend here wanted
to knock my head off.” Glen said.
“Well, probably because he owes my boss some
money.” Amel said, “that bet with Michigan wasn’t good, they beat them by
thirty-three.” He said to Juby.
Juby didn’t reply.
“Well, it’s interesting to see that a guy who
grabs carts for Ropers could be one of our experts.” Amel said to Glen.
Rudy was about to talk, but Glen held his
index finger up and said, “I did that nearly fifteen years ago, I’m now a Human
Resources Manager.”
“Human Resources? What do ya do? Help the
women with their sexual harassment allegations?”
“That and a few other things.” said Glen.
“You know that HR is there only for females.”
“I don’t care; I get paid well in case
gambling doesn’t work.”
“It’s working out for you, my friend.” With a
nod, “and that is why I brought you here.”
“And what do you need me to do?” Glen asked.
Before Amel said anything, the female running
the shop approached with imported drinks for all four.
“It’s on me,” Amel said, “it’s made in
Iceland, well, barely made now, Iceland isn’t doing so well.”
“I’ve heard; does this have alcohol in it?”
Glen asked.
“Nah, it’s pop.”
“Good enough, I rarely drink.”
“Do you need anything else?” the serving woman
said with a lovely Albanian accent.
“Um, no. I’ll give this a try.” Glen said.
She turned to Rudy, “What about you?”
“Well, I’d be happy with some alcohol, if you
have it.”
“Um, no we don’t. We don’t have a liquor
license.”
“I’ll do the same for Glen and try this.” Rudy
said while holding up the drink.
“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”
“I defiantly will.” Rudy said with a smile.
She walked away while Rudy stared at her
heading back beyond the counter. Amel shook his head on that but asked Glen,
“Back to business?”
“Sure, what can I do for you?”
“I’m not a fan of baseball; I think the sport
is boring to watch. So, let’s regard the people who work for me as my starting
pitcher rotation, because I have five people and Juby here is my number five.”
“You need a number six?” Glen asked while
sipping the Iceland drink.
Rudy broke his attention away from the girl
once she walked around the counter and gave the Iceland drink a try.
“Uh, well, not exactly, I need more like a
pitching coach.”
Glen swallowed the tasteless drink; he
disregarded the lack of taste and asked, “You want me to babysit?”
“Nah, no babysit, more like…”
Amel was interrupted by Rudy spitting out his
drink, this caught the attention of all patrons of the coffee shop. Rudy
coughed a little then said to Glen, “Unless Iceland doesn’t put a taste in
their drinks; I’d say this guy is trying to poison us.”
Amel eyes rose, “No, we are not at all attempting
to poison you. I’ll take a drink.”
That he did.
“See. We wouldn’t do that.”
“And how do I know that?” Rudy asked.
“Were these opened previously? You opened it
yourself.”
“I can do that trick myself with making opened
bottle appear fresh, I used to do that to bang my friend’s wife.” Rudy said.
Glen lifted his hand up to Rudy, “I don’t
think you’re trying to kill us, however, we are not fans of the imported drink
here.”
“No, biggie, what would you guys like?”
“I’m okay.” Glen said. Rudy gave the thumbs
up.
“Okay, you are not going to babysit, more like
coach.”
“I don’t coach, I bet. I’m not going to coach
this douche.” Glen said while pointing to Juby.
Amel pulled out some money out of his pocket
and tossed it on the table.
Rudy picked it up and looked at it, he said,
“Five hundred bucks, five Benjamin’s.”
“I hear you don’t go over a thousand, so I
thought I show you what we do.”
“And what is this for?”
“A day’s pay; take Juby to the bar where bets
are going down, not a bar that the cops watch. Shoreline Inn works well but
that bartender a fucking dickbag. And you coach Juby, make sure he doesn’t lose
any more money.”
“You are willing to pay me $500 each day for
this? When does it end?”
“Until Juby gets his act together, or when you
tell me he isn’t too good to pack the gear.”
Rudy smiled and asked, “What if he doesn’t?”
“He gets the boot.”
Glen question, “He loses his job with you?”
“That or a little worse, as I’m paying you,
may you not question how I give people the boot?”
The two looked to Juby who appeared nervous.
Glen said, “Unless you are trying to pull a
trick on us, Juby?”
why
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