The radio alarm buzzes at 5:45 AM. This station is a
country station filled with the young morning DJs that are particularly
annoying. Glen shrugged out of bed like a snail to turn the light on and
stretched out while the DJs were talking about a particular local incident.
Glen couldn’t care less about the incident really as the two laughed away.
Agreeably, the 32-year-old Glen can understand the idea that morning radio has
changed a lot since his teenage years back in the mid-to-late 90s.
“Another inning of baseball underway.” Glen said to
himself.
The
skinny and close to 6 feet tall Glen kept stretching himself out arms and legs.
This continued on for about 3 minutes and next, a stop happened due to the
annoying DJs on radio. It was still dark outside, so Glen turned on some lights
while walking around in this condo. The elegant carpet of the color beige kept
his bare feet warm only walked around his white sofa. He opened one of the
closets to grab a sweater with hand warmers and a pair of sweatpants and he put
them all on. He turned a light by the front door and put on a pair of Nike’s.
The keys went into the hand warmer pockets and the open up the front door to
see the night sky trying to turn light with some frozen dew on the ground.
Before he could step out, he grabs his iPod.
He
stepped out and close the door behind him including locking It up. He put the
ear buds on and switched his IPod to an FM station. His weapon of choice would
be the sports talk station of Detroit. Upon turning on the station, it identified
itself with a strange promo voice following some singing of a jingle by typical
radio voice.
Glen
began his jog while taking a good look around this condo complex. It shined
itself on a white color of the walls, particularly clap board. The condo he
chose was built in the late 70s. Despite that, it was well-maintained and he
had no complaints except for the idea that he would rather live in a more
modern condo. That and the road next to him was rather busy at times.
He
jogged off the condo property and onto a public sidewalk that was recently
developed. This station identified the date as November 5th and it
was a few minutes close to six o’clock in the morning. Glen jogged to the south
while seeing a sign advertising that there are condominiums for sale at
$140,000 or $1100 a month, but show casting all of the amenities it has. It
also advertised itself as one of the best in Shelby Township.
“I sure picked the wrong place to live.” Glen said to
himself as he passed the sign by.
While so, he saw an old gentleman jogging in the
opposite direction and to pass by. Something Shelby Township didn’t see much
of, joggers. What Shelby Township had a lot of was condos and subdivisions. The
township was part of northern Macomb County with a population increasing of
middle to upper class citizens. Its neighbor to the east, Macomb Township, was
beating Shelby to the population increasing game.
Glen
continued to jog on the sidewalk of Hayes Road while seeing that 21 Mile Road
was inching closer and closer to him with each step. The two talk show hosts of
the morning sports talk station had stated that Rick Jones of the Detroit
Pistons had been injured during the previous night’s game against Philadelphia
76ers.
Glen hesitated a little upon that news, and said to
himself, “Let’s hope that is not that bad.”
But the host stated that he would be out for two weeks
at the least.
Glen shook his head at that.
He
had arrived to the Northwest corner of Hayes and 21 Mile. He wanted to go
across the street; however, he had to wait for that walk sign to pop up.
Metropolitan Detroit intersections were very busy during rush hour times. So,
to ensure fewer accidents, one could be waiting at a red light for quite a
while. Let’s not forget the people who need to make a left turn. A pedestrian
would have to wait longer and so he waited. Glen continued to jog in place
while taking a look at all corners of the intersection. There were strip malls
at all intersections with a Burger King in front of the Southwest intersection and
a gas station at the Southeast intersection. To Glen, who observed the
interesting behavior of humans nowadays, would say that Shelby Township’s
folks’ hobbies evolve around shopping. And he would know for himself, he was a
higher up for the retail Industry.
Finally,
the walk sign turned on. Glen was about to make his first up on the street,
until his right away got violated as a large woman in a Ford Windstar went
ahead and made a right turn free with cell phone in her ear. Glen shrugged it
off, and took a look at the next driver on the right lane, an elderly man, who
waived him through. He gave them the thumbs up and continued his jog.
After
nearly a 4-mile jog, Glen arrived home to his condo, hearing more news about
Rick Jones’s injury. Better walk-in, shutting of his IPod and throwing it on
the kitchen counter. He stripped himself down all the way to the bathroom and
took a shower. Afterwards, he wrapped the towel around himself and proceeded to
the same closet to grab his dress clothes. He put on a white shirt and tie,
along with some black dress pants. To top it off, he wore an elegant vest. When
he finished up, he took a look of a framed photo hanging up on the wall of him
in summer clothes and a beautiful smiling blond-haired woman holding his arm.
The background was of Lake Huron.
He
didn’t stare for too long and continued to the door while grabbing his light
leather suitcase on the way. He closed and locked the door behind him and
headed to his Ford Focus.
“You
know guys; I’m glad that you all attended this meeting today, although it was
an option. Black Friday is just a few weeks away. And also the cold weather, in
fact, it’s pretty close.” A man with a white shirt and tie said as he was by
the presentation board in the staff only section of Ropers.
This followed by some chuckles among the other seven
people attending the meeting, including the younger individual of all people
attending, Glen Fletcher.
“You are dismissed, but I’d like to talk to you Glen before
you step out.” the man said.
Everyone got off their seats, along with a few ooohs,
to go along with it, the saying gesture that one is in trouble with the boss.
Glen made his approach to him while all made exits. He
regarded the nametag on the man being listed as Thomas Floyd, Store Manager.
“Since Black Friday’s coming around the corner, I want
you to get on the ball with that temporary office I e-mailed everyone about,
with yours and Barbara’s attention. Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did.” Glen stated.
“Well, give them a call, we can use some temps to fill
in the spots for Black Friday.”
“Have them come in today?” Glen asked.
He looked away, “Hmm, no, but we can have some start
Thursday. I’m sure the temp office will be handing us over some people with
retail experience, but I know that the will likely hand us over some people
with no or little experience. All I ask is that we have more female
temporaries, so can you… sort of… request that?” he asked.
Glen drew a smile, “I can seek to that, is this because
our clientele would rather be served by a female?”
“Works in restaurants, and I prefer this.”
“Then so be it. I’ll start with that now.”
“Go do it, and e-mail me on what will happen next.”
Glen turned to the do, “Will do that too.”
After making that call
and hand-writing down the details, Glen hung up the phone and was beginning to
prepare the information to his head cheese. He opened Microsoft Word, a version
a few years off of the newly released. It wasn’t something Glen had a problem
with; unlike most higher-ups of the department store he worked at, including
his immediate boss, Barbara Devore, a kind just-turned-50 short woman who just
liked Glen a lot. That’s because she shoveled the paperwork his direction.
The office he was in
had room for two desks, his desk and her desk. She wasn’t present at the moment
while Word started up with an issue of its speed. He thought of calling one of
his higher-up pals by the name of Lucas who was in-charge of the Information
Technology the store handled, but Barbara’s voice from outside the door. She
was approaching.
He
put the phone down and was waiting for her to pop into the office. A few
seconds later, she did. Barbara was a short wavy woman with long blond hair
that fell around her shoulders, she typically wore a white blouse with the
Ropers logo in blue, and tan dress pants.
“Barb, I got the rundown about what Tom wanted me to
do about the temp agency.”
“Oh, that’s good. What’s going down with that?” She
said while walking around to the desk.
“Just doing things according to what Tom specified.”
She sat down, “I know, more woman.”
He looked over to her desk, “Yes, that is what he
requested, how you would know?”
“It’s been like that since he became store manager.”
“I thought this was a recent thing. This is the first
time dealing with a temp agency?”
“Yes, it’s a new thing with Ropers. It also reduces
paperwork most importantly, and also helps the company with the benefits
portion.”
“I’d imagine that.”
“One more thing, before I go to lunch, I need you to
take care of a termination of an employee. It’s somebody who happens to be as a
front-end assistant.”
Although firing people was part of his job, Glen was
looking down at this and pretended not to hear it, with “What?”
“Some kid at the front end, he cussed out Marianne,
the team leader over there over the weekend. Can you handle that for me?”
“Hmm… I can try. But I’m a little busy with the
e-mail.”
She smiled, “It shouldn’t take you long.”
Then she got off her chair with the pink slip, handing
it over to him.
“He supposed to start at 2:30pm, I won’t be around. So
can you handle it?”
“As in, wait for him to arrive and deliver the news?”
“Yes, but remember, you take him to the office with
Marianne. You still remember the drill on how to do this?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, thanks. I doing lunch, want anything?”
“No, but thanks for your offer.”
“Suit yourself.” She said with a shrug out the door,
leaving it open behind her.
Glen shook his head and said to himself, “Firing
people, a great thing to do.”
Only with sarcasm.
He
was going to move on with his work, until his cell phone ringed. Glen wasn’t
too fond of phone calls to his personal cell phone, he was always a texter. He
pulled out his cell phone to take a look at the phone to see it was someone
familiar with.
“Tommy?” He answered.
A young black male’s voice on the other side of the
phone said, “Yeah, it’s me.”
“I suppose I have a few moments to spare, what’s up?”
“How’s that job being a male human resources manager
doing?”
He looked over to the chain of command board next to
him and said, “Junior human resources manager.”
He said this while seeing on the board two framed
photos in a column, with Barbara Devore listed as Senior Human Resources
Manager, and below the young Glen Fletcher listed as Junior.
“Yeah, usually chicks do that shit, seems kinda homo
that you do that.” Tommy said over the phone, followed by a chuckle.
“It sure beats a gambler who loses most times and
lives with his mother. I have my own condo.” Glen assured.
“Man, fuck you.”
“No thanks, are you calling about Rick Jones?”
“You heard?”
“Sports radio is the same equivalence as stockbrokers
listen to the financial radio shows.”
“Yeah, I got this guy; he’s looking to make a bet for
the L.A. / Detroit game tomorrow.”
“I gotta look at it first. Rick Jones being injured
screws with that future bet.”
“It’s only two weeks, man.”
“That’s two weeks too long.”
Tommy continued to
talk at the other end while a female employee wearing glasses and appearing
more like a nerd had entered the office and approached Glen’s desk.
“Hold that thought, Tommy.” He said.
He took the phone away from his ear, then to her with
a pleasant, “Yes?”
“Umm, I hear that you are hiring temporary help for
the holidays, and a friend of mine is interested in the opportunity.” she said.
“What we are doing now is going through a temp agency.
They are soon to be faxing us info for me to post on the bulletin boards in the
employee break area.”
“Oh, okay.” she said with a nod of her head.
“I’m working on that information right now and
awaiting the fax from the temp agency.”
“Which temp agency are you going through?”
“It’s a place not far from here, in Clinton Township,”
then he gave her the address while offering to write it down on a piece of
paper.
A beep from the fax machine next to his desk on a
separate shelf had beeped, and the two had looked towards it.
“Hmm, that could be them.” Glen said as he swung
himself over with the moving chair to take a look at the slow moving paper
coming out of the fax machine, with the temp agency’s logo up top.
Glen look to her with a smile, “This is it, I’ll make
you a copy once it pops out of the over here.”
After so, he made a
copy for her and continued on the phone with Tommy.
“Back on.” He
said.
“Man, I was waiting.”
“You’re calling me at my job, what do you expect?”
“Okay, you wanna meet up?”
“Yes, name your place.”
After
his work day was over, Glen drove on southbound Gratiot Avenue passing 13 Mile
Road as he navigated through the suburban jungle of Roseville, a city once
thriving in many shops whether they were corporate or ma and pa. Now, the ma
and pa’s were either gone or appeared to be struggling. One could say that
America was a coast to coast shopping mall with much shopping from one end to
another, and Roseville had its share, only that any brand name companies were
on each major street corner. The bar he was looking for would not be close to
any major corner, but a ma and pa bar located in between 11 and 12 Mile Roads.
The one industry non-corporate that stood still in the town of nearly 50,000
people: bars. When things were not going well, people needed a cold hard one.
Glen
drove on in the middle lane with his 2005 Blue Ford Focus while eating a small
bag of baked potato chips he kept. The radio dial on the local sports talk
station. The mention of Rick Jones injury has floated to his ears via the
surround sound of his speakers, with the lingering idea that he may injured
than the aforementioned time of two weeks.
“Shit.” Glen said with a shake of his head.
A few
minutes later, he located the Davenport Bar and slowed down to make his turn
from the slow lane. The driver behind him honked the horn, which prompted him
to take a look in his rearview mirror. He saw a black woman holding her arms
up, with a weight Glen guessed nearing or over 300 pounds.
“Sorry that I interfered with your getting home to
watch Oprah.” he said.
The parking lot was a
crackling blacktop with two rows. He found a parking spot in the back area, set
the gear to park and shut off the engine. He opened the door and noticed he was
parked by a Kia Sedona, and remarked to himself with a shake of his head, “What
a piece of shit this car is.”
He then entered the bar.
The
door opened to his temporary exit of a cloudy day to a hardly-lighted bar that
was built somewhere in the seventies and not much re-updated since besides
newer and modern seats. The bar was at his right, with new flat screen TVs of
1080p, with Keno for anyone who wants to gamble legally. Booths were at the
left, while at the wall opposite of him were the typical arcade dartboards and
also one of few arcade games available these days, the typical golfing video
game. Before those were a few stand-up tables and stools.
A young black male sitting at one of those sit-up
tables had gestured to Glen to come over.
“Tommy!” Glen said in a celebratory matter.
Minus the man named Tommy, he call for him got the
attention of the two of three other bar patrons, and the young and lovely
female bartender.
“Yeah.” Tommy said while waving him over.
“Tommy!” again with that voice.
“Yeah, Glen, get your ass over here.”
“Tommy!”
“What!?” with his arm out in a defensive way.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yeah motherfucker, I can hear you. Now take a seat,
everyone here is looking at us.” Tommy said.
Glen sat down seeing that Tommy had already ordered a
Budweiser with a tall glass to go along with it, and as always, he has a keno
ticket with a draw 10.
He chuckled at that, “Try a draw four.”
“What? You mean Keno?”
“Yeah.” Glen said while taking a ticket for a better
look for himself.
“Hey!” Tommy
said while trying to grab it back.
“Draw tens have crappy odds. I’d suggest draw four.”
“Man, draw fours can only get you a crap amount if you
get all four, now gimme that shit back.”
Glen handed it over, “You can win seventy-two dollars.
It’s a lot easier.”
“Man, I want the hundred thousand dollars, not some
shitty seventy-two dollars.”
The female barmaid with a skinny body and full of
make-up had approached to Glen with a smile on her face, “Can I get you
anything?”
“I’ll take a Pepsi.”
“I’m sorry, but all I have is Coke products.”
“Coke with a straw.”
While she was writing that down, Tommy said, “Damn,
Glen, why don’t you get a beer?”
“I’m not drinking today.”
She looked to Glen, “I’ll get that in a second.”
And before she walked away, she gave a sour look at
Tommy.
“Rick Jones.” Glen muttered.
“Yeah, can you believe that shit? They are saying a
month now.”
“I heard on the radio.”
“Detroit Sports Powerhouse? That station sucks.”
“They are local.”
“Yeah, but we need national. Get a satellite radio, they
got ESPN Radio.”
The barmaid approached
with Glen’s Coca-Cola, with quickness to her, “Thanks,” then to Tommy, “There
is ESPN at my home and I can visit the website from time to time at my job.”
“Yeah, but get the satellite radio.”
“Do you have one?”
“Um… well, it’s my bro’s.”
Glen shook his head, “And you are telling me to get
one? That’s not a good way of selling me a product.”
He shrugged with a dirty look on his face, “hey man, I
don’t fucking make a buck telling you about this. It’s just something I’m
telling ya.”
“I’ll think about it. But Rick Jones, if he is out for
a month, it’s hard for him to get 1600 points this season.”
“He might, he’s the guy who scores most of the
points…does he?”
“You pay attention to the basketball, you would know.”
“Man, I don’t like looking at numbers and shit, that’s
for Jimbo.”
“I know, but I think you should pay attention. That’s
a five-hundred dollar future bet.”
Tommy hunched down with his elbows on the table,
taking a sip of his beer first, and then said, “Man, you need to make bets over
a thousand, or ten-thousand. I know you got that shit.”
Glen sipped his Coke through a straw with a shake of
his head.
“Stop being a pussy, man.”
“Maybe in a few months, we can make a thousand dollar
bet. Jimbo’s got some inside info on baseball and fantasy baseball.”
“Let’s make one today, I know you got the money.”
Glen gave him an
intriguing stare, “Tommy, it’s my damn money. I make the say. Besides, you are
my advice guy for basketball and football, and you look for anyone making bets
that can get us cash, not digits on my spare bank account connected to a card I
use.”
“It’s the digital age, baby.” Tommy with a smile along
with the fact.
“Yes, but we need cash as well.”
“Cash money!”
“The doomsayers of the financial world have me agreeing
with them.”
“Why the hell are you still wearing your work
uniform?”
Glen looked over to himself, and shrugged to Tommy.
“Why don’t you go change, you look like a douche.
Especially with that name tag on,” next to read it with his own celebratory voice,
“Glen Fletcher, Human Resources Manager.”
He looked down to see his trademark Ropers tag was
still on his vest.
“Augh, shit.” he said with silence while taking it off
and tossing it on the table, “thought I left it in my car, upside down like I
usually do so.”
“You fucked up that time, same with Rick Jones.”
“I was banking on Rick Jones doing at least 75 games
and getting 1600 points. It’s a risk, you dummy. You are taking those too.”
“Doesn’t Jimbo look at some kind of mathematical shit
that actually calculates injuries and shit?”
“You’re getting confused with a stat category baseball
saber metrics. Besides that, it’s a wild guess on when a player gets injured. I
like to get down to business.”
“Oh yeah, the LA/Detroit game, since Rick is injured,
the bookie is saying LA by 20. I recommend we go for LA.”
“Since Rick is injured, that may work. Where’s he at?”
After
the Davenport, Glen went to his next destination called the Shoreline Inn and
parked on the rocky driveway. This was unusual for a bar located in an
upper-middle class setting such as Saint Clair Shores, and especially a bar
located by Lake St. Clair. Glen stepped out, but first made sure his name tag
was in the car and upside down for an easy get for identity thieves. His next
step onto the rocky parking lot was an uncomfortable one, and he remarked to
himself, “It’s the twenty-first century, get a paved parking lot.”
He
stepped into the bar that was built in the early 1960s and minus a couple
modern additions with large flat-screen TV’s, it appeared it didn’t have been
updated since. From previous experience, the men’s bathroom was a very little
room with a sink, toilet and a messy urinal that probably wasn’t cleaned since
the place opened. Since then, Glen always made sure he had an empty bladder
before showing up and a bottle of hand sanitizer ready. The Shoreline Inn is a
place where he would frequent when it all started.
He
headed to the bar, bypassing the homely waitress and approached the
noticeable-gut male bartender.
“Budweiser, please?” Glen said with a smile on his
face.
He smiled with a shake of head, what little long hair
on his balding head followed suit with that shake, “Chicago Blackhawks vs.
Florida Panthers.” he said.
“I make mistakes.” Glen said.
He approached with the Budweiser and a glass, “A big
mistake,” he said, “Chicago was supposed to score five goals; instead, Florida
won five to one.”
“Well, let’s see if I lose more, how about
basketball?”
He smiled, “Which game?”
“LA vs. Detroit?”
“Got someone willing for that.” the smile dropped,
“what split?”
“LA. Plus twenty.”
“Ooh… plus twenty? Let me call that somebody, he’ll be
down here for that game which is a couple of days from now, right?”
“I think Detroit is on a west coast trip now. They
play Oklahoma City.”
“Yes they do, want to bet on that? Game doesn’t start
until 9:30.” the bartender asked while heading to the phone.
“No, but I want to redeem my hockey betting on the
Detroit-New York Rangers game.”
He picked up the phone that was against the wall, but
kept his eyes on Glen, “What’s the split?”
Glen looked away, advertising his thought process
with, “Hmm, Detroit, 3 goals or more.”
He smiled again, “I got somebody around here thinking
that Detroit will win with two goals or less. He’s out smoking.”
“Okay, I’ll be interested in talking to him, go ahead
and talk to that guy on the phone.”
“I sure will, I’m dialing him now.”
He went on the phone while the homely waitress (who
happened to be his wife) approached Glen, “want something to eat?”
He smiled with the idea that since the bathroom wasn’t clean, it probably wasn’t a good idea that he would eat any cooked food from here, although he was hungry.
“Nah, I’ll just take a breadstick or two.”
She dropped the smile, “You know, you never get
anything from here but beer… and Pepsi.”
He was about to spit out the reason why, but shook his
head and said, I kinda like the beer and breadsticks.”
She rolled her eyes and walked to an occupied booth
down the way, as Glen noticed that the bar was nearly empty. While so, he
noticed a Saint Clair Shores officer enter the bar via the front door. Somebody
he didn’t notice when he arrived.
He didn’t put too much regard for him as the bartender
approached, “He’s on the phone, he want to bet $260 on LA winning under 19, you
okay?”
“And if I win?” Glen said before sipping his beer.
“Five hundred dollars.”
He swallowed it down and asked, “Taking twenty for
you?”
“It’s the house.” the bartender said while pointing
up.
“I’ll be here Thursday.” Glen said with a nod, while
taking another sip of a beer.
The bartender went on with the person on the phone.
Glen
continued drinking the beer while keeping an eye on the Fox Sports Network,
Detroit’s version as they played the Red Wings Insider, something typical Fox
news would do before the game started. He looked at a different TV to see ESPN,
all he could see was the screen but no sound, likely due to the TV’s volume
down low. A TV in the dining area filled the room with the sounds of a rerun of
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. He turned over to attempt to get the
waitress to turn the volume down on that, but while the turn, the officer had
approached him. It’s stopped Glen in his tracks due to how serious the cop
looked.
He stopped two feet away from Glen, “You gambling?”
Glen put his beer back on the bar table, “Well… yes
I’m sir, thank you.”
“That’s illegal there… sir.”
He looked back, “Well… you got me… sir.”
The bartender finished with his end of the
conversation and noticed the cop. He smiled with a shake of his head, “Hey
officer, you looking at the man who thinks Detroit will win by three or more
goals.”
The cop broke his stare and laughed hard at that, “Is
that so?” only that he looked to the bartender.
“Two sixty.” the bartender said.
The cop pulled out a stack of twenties and began to
count his two-sixty.
Glen began to do the same with two Benjamin’s and
three twenties.
Then the cop looked over as Glen saw his namesake,
Officer E.Juby, and Juby said, “Your ass is going down.” while trying to
imitate a black man’s voice.
Glen gave a wry smile; he almost wanted to laugh at
the pitiful attempt for this cop to sound tough. He knew that some officers in
St. Clair Shores were paid more than the average officer, and St. Clair Shores’
residents had a better median salary compared to most cities and townships in
Macomb County, the county that borders Detroit’s own Wayne County by a margin,
mostly on the east while Oakland guards a portion of the west. And to better
account the financial statistics of the city, it bordered Lake St. Clair with
houses by the lake being squandered for taxes.
“Two-sixty, eh?” Glen said to the bartender.
He nodded.
“I get five hundred bucks if I win?”
Before the bartender remarked, “You won’t win it.”
said Juby.
Glen disregarded him, “And the twenty dollars?”
He pointed to himself, “The house needs it’s cut.”
Then Juby said to the bartender, “You know, one day,
I’m gonna bust your ass. We’ll get some undercover officers from Macomb and we
are gonna bust your ass.”
He shook his head, “You’re not gonna do that.”
Then he looked to Glen, “So, what’s your name? Or
should I ask for ID?”
“My handle is Glen.”
With a sarcastic smile, “Better yet, I wanna see your
ID.”
Glen hesitated purposely then got out his wallet,
while so, Officer Juby ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, a flavor of beer Glen
dreaded, then handed him his ID.
Juby with the smile intact took a look; he moved it
around to make sure the right watermarks are in place.
“Well, it ain’t a fake. Is this your first time there,
rookie?” Juby asked while keeping his eye on the ID, however, it appeared to
Glen that he may have had a few beers already.
“Rather not talk about it.”
Juby looked towards him, mocking it, “Rather not talk
about it?”
Glen nodded.
“You know, I can pull up your information right quick.
I can get info on where you work, social security number, a lot, a lot.”
“You yourself can’t, however, I bet your boss can.”
“Yeah, I can’t personally, but I can make a phone
call, hell, I can get your family info, hell, I can get info on what times you
jerk off in a day.”
“Boy, that’s scary. I do wish our society would of
thought twice before we given you guys the right of the Patriot Act.”
Juby’s smile dropped, “Now, you are not one of these
motherfuckers who thinks 9/11 is an inside job, do ya?”
Glen looked at him with wonder, “Hmm… no. Osama Bin
Laden did it. Why do you ask?”
“Cause I don’t like those fags who say, ‘oh, George
Bush did it.’”
“Well, perhaps your confused, I just disagree with the
Patriot Act. Now, officer, may I have my ID back?”
His smile came back, “You’re a fucking asshole who
gonna lose money, just watch.” he said while politely handing Glen his ID back,
which he wasn’t suspecting.
Amidst the words, Fox Sports Detroit had teased the
game with its hyperactive and dramatic promo of the Red Wings/Rangers hockey
game coming up.
“Watch, in three hours, I’ll have five-hundred
dollars.” Juby added.
TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER
It
was just a minute left in the Detroit/New York game, with Detroit leading 2-0.
It appeared that the Juby the corrupted officer was going to get the
five-hundred, and Glen the loss with the bragging rights heard from him. This
will be a prize minute for Glen, happy that Detroit will win, but he needed
that third goal. They now saw that Detroit is on the attack. A failed pass on
their defense zone by New York was intercepted with a three-on-one, here’s the
hope.
The
Red Wings went flying through the attack zone passing and passing, Glen had
hope. They went all the way to the net with anticipation by Ken Daniels and
Mickey Redmond saying they are driving to the net.
“Oh, fuck no.” Juby said with a shake of his head.
However,
the lone defenseman predicted right and took away the puck from the shooter,
and cleared it out into the middle where one of his teammates took control.
“Ha ha, Glen. Prepare to pay!” Juby announced.
In the window of slightly less than three hours, Glen
could easily classify Juby as a serious hustler, something that wasn’t his
style.
Hope would come again, Mickey Redmond announced that
the New York goaltender left the goal for that extra attacker. Although two
goals down, it’s worth the try.
“No, what the hell?” Juby said. His confidence went
down.
Forty seconds left, New York with that extra attacker
floated into the attack zone with their star player passing the blue line first
to prevent an offside.
“Keep the puck away from them!” Juby said to the
TV.
A pass to a player closing into the net, suggesting
that New York was trying the triangle offensive, was intercepted by a
defenseman. A call from the crowd could be heard while Ken Daniels announced
the interception. The defenseman did right by locating a forward who read the
play and wanted a pass. He got that pass before he could pass the centerline,
if so that happened, the play would stop with a called two-line pass.
“Augh, shit.” Juby weaned.
Glen forced a petty smile and leaned back on his stool
as that forward floated closer and closer to that empty net with no one in his
way and rushing Rangers who could not catch up.
“And the biscuit goes into the empty net!” Ken Daniels
announced, “Three-nothing. Scott will go back into the net, we have 27 seconds
left.”
Juby looked down, “Fffffuck…”
Glen regarded him; chances were good that this officer
was banking on the bet to fall through for whatever reason. He began to imagine
if he had a mob connection, which is something Glen did not want to associate
with at this time being. That, or the other guess, he probably thought of Glen
as someone he shouldn’t lose too and his personal pride was besmirched. During
the game, he didn’t say much to him besides the bragging that he would win. At
the second period, he asked Glen about his profession, in which he refused to
answer.
“Hey cheer up, there is some time left.” The bartender
said to Juby.
He shook his head, “Likely, they won’t score another
goal.”
Glen agreed with a smile, Juby didn’t see this.
The next 27 seconds wasn’t dramatic, no side got the
advantage and before anyone could know it, Glen was to be two hundred and forty
dollars richer, unless provided that Juby may pull something.
Juby
walked out with a bleak said of “congratulations.” And the bartender grabbed
the dough, counted out the money and laid it down on the table, and emphasized
that the last twenty ‘belonged to the house.’
“I bet a cop.” Glen said with dry sarcasm.
“Watch out though, he is likely going to fuck with
you. Glad I didn’t take the bet.” The bartender said.
“Should I worried about him tazing me and taking my
money? I sadly had that happened to me before, minus my money being taken.”
Glen asked.
“He’s never done that,” with a shake of his head, “he
will be intimidating, he is a dirty cop.”
“Connections to the mob?”
He paused with a deep look in his face, “Do you?”
That confused Glen, “Me?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh…no, I was
wondering if you know if he is.”
“Far as I know, no, but someone told me he may have a
connection to the Albanians here. We got a lot of them.”
Glen bunched the money; he lifted up his leg and
stuffed it in his sock, and moved his pant leg under it. If Juby or any other
person was going to knock him out and try to take the money, he would hope for
them to check his pockets and not to think that he has it somewhere else on
him. If so and they checked his pockets, he could deny that he has it and go
for saying that he gave it to someone, or even to the bartender for safe
keeping. Too many scenarios were going through his head on what to do if
conformation comes up, as he wished farewell to the bartender and added, “Call
911 if I get shot.”
The bartender shook his head, “If you’re still alive,
I’ll call you on the Kings and Wings game.”
He
made his way to the exit out and took a few steps with the calmness but keeping
a clear mind on his surroundings, and the scenarios keeping up in his head. He
stopped when a couple of bangs against metal were heard behind him.
Glen turned around to see Juby on the left of the
front door, lying against the wall.
“Should I worry about being shot and having my money
taken away?” he asked.
Juby walked away from the wall and slowly approached
Glen with a blank stare on his face, but he could tell in his eyes that
something was wrong and something is likely going to happen. And since it’s a
cop, it was worse; he couldn’t hit him back without the assault on an officer
charge.
“No… I’m not going to shoot you.” Juby said with a
shake of his head.
“I suppose you can punch me in the face and say I
tried to assault you.” Glen said.
Juby showed a fiendish smile, “Just maybe.”
Glen pointed his finger up to the northwest, “How
about the cameras? The camera doesn’t lie.”
Juby stopped, “The fuckin’ cameras don’t work.”
“Yes, they do.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They do, the red light is on. I’m very well
knowledgeable of those security cameras, as he has a few of them around,
including one hidden in the sign. I’m willing to bank that he has a personal
feed to his house.”
“Man…who the fuck are you? What the hell do you do
anyway?”
“I’d rather not say. I do have the right not to say.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Can I ask that you are involved with the Albanians
here?”
Juby blank stare and wide eyes turned to a tick of
concern, “Now how do you know about all of this?”
Glen shrugged, “just a guess. Are we finished,
officer? I do need to go home and go to bed, I need my rest.”
He walked straight to Glen and got within 12 inches of
his face.
He then said, “Get your ass out of my town. Get the
fuck back to that pre-fab fucktard town of Shelby Township. This is my town! No
fuckin’ Albanians run this shit. I run this shit!”
Glen smiled and gave him the salute.
“Go… get out.” Juby said while backing away a couple
of feet.
Glen turned but kept his eyes on him. He didn’t falter
a step when entering his car, starting the engine and waved good-bye to the
cop.
A few miles
later and without incident, Glen passed by the welcome to Harrison Township
sign while driving on Jefferson Avenue.
He thought to himself, ‘Rick Jones is out and the
Albanians bought a cop.’
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