Job or death in Philadelphia
Шрифт:
What the hell is `Planet Security'? Aren't polygraph tests administered by the FBI? The office door opened. The principal stood behind it, holding the knob and talking to a little girl. I flipped the last page and saw familiar lettering: NOSE, the National Office of Services to Emigrants. Whoever came up with a name for that place definitely was an illiterate foreigner. Emigrants are people who leave a country for some other country. People who are coming here to America are immigrants! Debbie's workplace sounded trashy to me. I couldn't figure out any reason she decided to take work there. I didn't have time to read the letter, and instead, just folded it and put it in the pocket of my jacket.
"I apologize for leaving you alone, but this time of day is really busy." The principal took the folder from me and tucked it safely under her arm. "Please, let me know if you need any help."
On the way back home, I stopped just once to get gas. While my little red sexy gas-gobbler was getting filled up, I went to the station restroom. Its massive metal door was locked and scratched all over, as if somebody was trying to open it using the wrong key. To get a key, I walked into the station and found myself at the end of a waiting line. A tall, skinny guy was buying several dozen lottery tickets. The cashier needed to enter every number on every ticket manually. Clicking, the machine was gradually spitting printed tickets at him.
"Excuse me!" I shouted, standing at the door.
The cashier didn't even look at me.
"May I get the restroom key?"
The cashier looked at me and opened his mouth to say something, when the skinny man whirled towards me like a blood-thirsty hyena. I saw them in a safari park in Florida. They have glossy eyes, as if thawed after a long-term freezing.
"The cashier is busy; don't you bother him," he whispered.
"I just need the key to the restroom," I said.
But the damage was done. The cashier just stood there, scratching his head.
"Did you want the Powerball, or what?" he asked finally.
"Yes," the thawed guy screamed. "I told you five times; put a hundred dollars on the Powerball lottery! They have one of the biggest games in their history, five hundred million dollars. Hurry up! They are closing up in five minutes."
"I'm sorry." The cashier, a boy merely out of high school, whispered. "I pressed the wrong button. It's all gone to the Number of the Day game. I'm sorry."
The skinny guy started to shake and emit steam like a burning teakettle. "You're not sorry yet. You will pay for this, or I will make you sorry!"
"I can't pay for this. It's a hundred dollars," the boy reminded him, desperately trying to keep his tears at bay. "I'm earning forty dollars a day."
"I don't care how much you earn. Now, I'm not paying for this. The transaction was completed, so you pay." The thawed guy jerked his hundred-dollar bill out of the boy's hand and left the station with a look of triumph shining through his glossed eyes.
A second later, a manager materialized out of thin air. His verdict was similar: your error, pay for it. The cashier was crying openly now.
Nobody said a word. My car was ready to go, but I desperately needed to use the bathroom.
"Hey," I said. "Don't cry. Check those numbers. Maybe you've got a couple of bucks."
"Yeah, right! Check those numbers, bro." The line responded enthusiastically. The winning numbers started to run across the black screen on the top of the counter. Sobbing, the boy looked at his couple of feet of tickets. It would take him an hour to check every ticket, and I was about to piss in my pants.
"Hold it," I said, meaning myself. I moved forward, grabbing the tickets from the boy's hand, tearing them along with the perforation, and giving a bunch of tickets to everybody in the line.
"Look for the numbers I'm reading," I said, and dictated numbers off the screen. The numbers ran too fast, so I wrote them down on my bunch of tickets. Alas, I dictated the numbers several times, and nobody found a match.
"Well," I said finally. "Maybe you can give me a restroom key now?"
"What about the tickets in your hand?" the manager asked me. I was so busy picturing myself opening the restroom door and devoting myself to my guilty pleasures that I forgot about my share of tickets. Two of them had no matches, but the third one had the matching numbers of the day!
"Your total win is one million dollars," I said, handing the winning ticket to the dumbstruck boy. "Now, give me the restroom key."
Driving home, I was trying to recall where I heard the words `number of the day.' Somebody mentioned it recently, but I just couldn't recall. The other burning question was the polygraph test. Two in the afternoon tomorrow was less than twenty-two hours away. I should advise Debbie about that. What was this company's name again? Where was it? Even though the kids were back home, and dinner had to be started shortly, I made a wild turn before entering Mooresville, and went to Joe's office.
CHAPTER 6
Running into the office, I howled, "Joe, I have some new dirt!" He wasn't at his desk. I opened the bathroom door – empty. The kitchen looked deserted as well. Bewildered, I looked in the window to see if his car was in the driveway. A nauseating sense of danger came over me.
"Joe! Joe!" I shouted in panic.
A loud snort from under my boss's desk made me walk around and look there. Joe was lying on the floor with his eyes closed.
"Joe, are you okay there?" I whispered and touched his stomach to make sure he was alive.
"Watch yourself, young lady," he said angrily, and opened one eye for a second. "What do you think you're doing?"
"But, I…"
"You're storming into my office during regular business hours, waking me up from a sound sleep, screaming that you have dirt on my client?"
"But, you…"
"My clients are everything to me. They're above any dirt, like Caesar's wife."
"But, she…"
"By the way, young lady, your husband is about to come back from work; and you're here, touching another man's body. What is that all about?"