One sunny spring Monday, in a small western American city that many residents preferred to call a large town, a locally owned burger and chicken shack had catered to a steady stream of hungry customers all morning. After a brief respite, the expected lunch rush at this eatery in Lawton, California lasted for almost two hours. The tired counter staff looked relieved when the crowd had once again thinned out.
Although most of the crew looked to be high school age, one tall and willowy female stood out. Appearing to be in her early twenties, she had balled her long, blond locks in a hairnet as best she could. Even while adjusting the position of her brown cap she looked uncomfortable, as if being out of place in her environment. Checking her contorted reflection in a large, shiny steel coffeemaker, June Dawson hurried to straighten the plastic nametag on her yellow and brown striped blouse before returning to her register.
A mustached man in his mid-forties approached her order station.
“May I help you?” she asked.
He presented her with a quizzical look. “Uh, yeah. A double filet to go.”
“Double filet.” She pressed the register keys. “You want fries and drink with that?”
“No, just the sandwich.” He squinted. “Say, don’t I know you?” He glanced at her nametag, but from the unsure look on his face, the letters J-D stamped there provided no clue.
“Four-nineteen,” she said.
He lowered his gaze to open his wallet. “Wait a minute. Yeah, now I remember.” He looked up again, studying her features. “I think it was over in Oakland, maybe a year ago. I never forget a face.”
Her eyes avoiding his, she held out her hand to await the money.
He handed it over. “It’s June, right?” He did not wait for a reply. “Yeah. Hey, you want to meet later at my place? I’m a good tipper, remember?”
She handed him the receipt along with eighty-one cents in change. “Thank you. Next!”
Following a moment of hesitation the man shrugged, grabbed his takeout bag and stepped toward the exit.
The day manager stepped forward before the next customer approached. “Come back to the office with me, please, June. Monica will take over.” He motioned to the other clerk.
Having padded back to the small room, he sat at a cluttered desk and waved June over to the sole other chair. “This is only your first week here and that’s the third guy I’ve seen talking to you like that. I’m afraid that whatever it represents is inconsistent with the family atmosphere we wish to offer our patrons.”
“Mr. Jordan, I swear I don’t know what those men were talking about. They’ve obviously got me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think so. Both your verbal and body language reactions on those occasions tell me that you know exactly what they were talking about.”
“I don’t see how that—”
“I’m going to pay you for your full shift. You can pick up your check when you drop off the uniform. It’s best that you accept your dismissal without argument. That way I can at least give you a reference as being a conscientious worker.”
“Then why—”
“I think you’d do rather well in a different locale, or at least in a different position where the general public isn’t heavily involved. But here, no. And since you’re still in your probationary period, I’m exercising my prerogative to simply let you go. No arguments.”
June stood. After focusing a brief, angry look toward him she turned to exit the office in a huff. While on her way to the parking lot, her head held high, she determinedly strode past whispering former coworkers.
June claimed a driver’s license but did not own a car. She could not afford one. But she did not need to as her job had been within walking distance from a small room she recently called home. Better accommodations she also could not afford. And being unemployed once again, she would be able to afford even less.
Two blocks over at that same hour, a short, older woman wearing trendy sunglasses and headscarf entered the Sentinel Newspaper offices. A small daily focused primarily on hometown news, it also touted various human-interest columns including those critiquing the fine arts and food available in San Francisco, some forty miles northwest.
At the receptionist’s desk the woman asked to see a specific reporter. In response, the staff member pointed to a man walking down the hall. “That’s him.”
“Thanks.”
The visitor hurried to catch up with the man and asked that they meet in private.
He showed her to his cubicle and gestured for her to sit. “I can spare a few minutes. How may I help you?”
“Maybe we can help each other,” she replied. “How would you like an exclusive about possible political corruption?”
Having raised an eyebrow he appeared to display genuine interest. “Okay, I’m listening.” He pulled a notepad from his drawer.
“Good.” She reached out to clasp his wrist. “Of course, my coming here will most likely get you killed, you understand.”
The reporter slipped free of her grasp.
Homer Johnson mounted the steps two at a time at the Clearview apartments over on Thornton Avenue. An athletic twenty-one-year-old, he once claimed to have acquired most of his physical stamina from fleeing the scenes of petty crime. But on this day he was not running from any such unlawful activity. He simply wished to drink beer and watch sports on television with his friend, Sean Fitzgerald.
Homer arrived at the door of Apartment 207 and readied to knock, but as he raised his arm the door opened and a young, pretty brown-haired Hispanic woman exited. Homer did not know her but he nodded in her direction as she stepped away. He paid her another longer look before entering Sean’s apartment and closing the door.
“Sean, buddy, where are you?” Homer could hear water running.
|