“I need to talk to you, Grey.” He voice was clipped and tired, all his usual sarcasm stripped away. He stepped inside and closed the door. He gestured toward my desk chair. “Take a seat.”
Stepping over the files on my floor, I plopped down in my chair as I was told. “This is mostly the Hampstead matter,” I told him, gesturing to the mess on the floor, trying to keep things business as usual. “I thought it was time to send it to storage.”
He didn’t answer or even glance at the scattered files. Instead, he took a seat in the visitor’s chair on the other side of my desk. His eyes landed on the crowbar. It was on the edge of my desk, the once-happy red bow now looking disheveled and sad, broadcasting the dread in my gut. Steele’s mouth, tightly closed, fought to hold back a smile as he ran a long finger along the cold black finish of the tool. Then he picked up the crowbar with one hand and placed it on the floor next to him, out of my reach.
“Really, Steele?” I asked, going from worried to annoyed. “Maybe you should also confiscate my scissors and letter opener while you’re at it.”
six
I didn’t want to go home. No one would be there but Muffin and Dumpster. And in the mood I was in, I’d probably pick them both up to hug them for comfort and smother them between my big boobs. Mom was out of town, but even if she wasn’t, she’s not exactly the consoling type. I could have swung by Zee’s home but mentally crossed off that option, even though she’s my best friend in the entire world. There was only one person who could comfort me when I was this devastated.
Ocean Breeze Graphics was humming with its usual busy activity when I opened the glass-doored entrance and stepped inside. I’d parked in the small lot in front of the strip mall housing the shop and sat in my car a full five minutes before I could no longer ignore the heat that filled the vehicle once the engine and AC had been switched off. I hadn’t called first, although I probably should have. I hated bothering Greg at work when he was super busy, but this concerned him too.
As soon as I entered the shop, cool air hit me, bringing me out of my stupor. I was relieved to see that only Chris Fowler, Greg’s manager, was there. Greg has three employees—Chris, Aziz Hajjar, and Lupe Juarez. I didn’t see Lupe or Aziz anywhere. It took Chris a minute before he saw me, but once he did, he came right over and unlatched the gate in the counter that divided the private work area from the customer area with its self-serve copy machines, rental computer stations, and a few chairs for those waiting for jobs to be finished. There was even a flat screen TV hung from the ceiling for waiting customers to watch. It was always tuned to CNN with the volume set low. The main counter was split into a high counter and a low counter, the lower counter to accommodate Greg’s wheelchair when he was taking care of customers. He also did a lot of work for people in wheelchairs, as that community liked to give business to its own. Currently there was only one customer in the place—a middle-aged Asian man checking out his phone while he waited on one of the plastic chairs.
“Mr. Fujita,” Chris said to him on his way to greet me. “Your job will be done in five minutes.” The man nodded at Chris before going back to his phone.
Chris greeted me with a big smile of slightly crooked teeth. “Hi, Odelia,” he said, shutting and latching the gate behind me. “Greg’s in his office.”
“Where are Lupe and Aziz?” I asked, more in the way of small talk to calm my nerves. As soon as I spoke, Wainwright trotted out from Greg’s office in the back, his tail wagging, a big doggie smile on his face. Wainwright might be moving slower these days, but his ears were still keen. Greg’s office had a large window in one wall so he could keep an eye on the shop. He’d turned to see what had attracted Wainwright. When he saw me, he gave me a big smile and a wave.
“Aziz is out making a delivery, and Lupe’s on vacation,” Chris told me as I bent down to greet Wainwright and rub him behind his ears. “She went to Mexico to see her grandmother. She’s not very well.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said with genuine concern as I straightened up.
Lupe had been working for Greg for almost two years. She was a young single mother. Even though Lupe had little education, Greg had taken a chance on her and was helping her get her GED and her citizenship. She’d turned out to be a very hard worker. Greg had a keen eye for good employees and often gave chances to people that others would not. It seldom turned sour for him. His business partner, Boomer, had come to him unable to find a decent job because of all his piercings and tattoos. He was super smart, and while he worked at Ocean Breeze he had finished college with honors. It had been his idea to expand, and it had been a sound one. Greg rewarded him with a buy-in to the company. After marrying, Boomer moved to Colorado to set up Mountain Breeze Graphics. Aziz had lost his previous job when all the hysteria over Muslims raised its ugly head. Chris knew him and his family and vouched for him. He’d also turned out to be a very good employee.
“Is there anything Greg and I can do for Lupe?” I asked Chris. Even Chris had been a risky hire. He’d shown up looking for a part-time job as a skinny, pimply-faced high-school dropout with almost no self-esteem. He had dropped out of high school because of bullying. As with Lupe, Greg had helped him get his GED. From there he went on to community college. He ran the shop in Greg’s absence and was almost as good as Greg with graphic work. Along the way, Chris had filled out nicely and had gained confidence in himself.
Chris flashed another smile. “You know how the boss is; he’s already helping.” I smiled back. My husband was a superhero, with or without a crowbar. After a couple of years of rebellion following the injury that had put him in a wheelchair as a young teen, and many second chances, Greg had straightened his life around and felt the need to pay it forward by doing the same for others. But before you think he’s some sort of saint, let me be the first to tell you that he’s not. Greg has a bad temper, but only when pushed to the brink. He seldom backs down from a physical altercation. And he has a very bad habit of leaving dirty laundry on the floor and hair in the sink. He’s also not that great at poker and loses more than he wins at his twice-monthly poker game with his pals.
With Wainwright in tow, I made my way to Greg’s office. He used to have a large wooden traditional desk that took up a lot of room in the middle and wasn’t the easiest for him to get around. Several years ago he’d put money into customizing his office. Now there were wheelchair-height counters on all three of the windowless sides, with a nice-size floating extension that jutted out in the middle of the room. His computer sat on the extension, along with our wedding picture and a photo of us with our pets, including our cat Seamus, who had crossed the rainbow bridge a couple of years earlier. The counters were just deep enough to accommodate lateral file cabinets underneath, and the file cabinets were spaced apart so that Greg could access them from the side instead of them being set flush against each other. Each of those spaces was wide enough for Greg to slip into with his wheelchair and use the counter above as more workspace. Lighting was set up to cover all work areas. Greg was using one of those spaces now as he pored over some designs.
“Sweetheart,” Greg said, “hang on a minute. I’m almost done with this project.” True to his word, a minute later he turned and greeted me properly. “What a nice surprise—and great timing. Guess who called me about an hour ago?”
Holding back my tears and anxiety, I shrugged.
“Burt Sandoval,” he announced. “You know, the guy who helped with Maurice on Saturday.”
My surprise shoved my misery aside for a moment. “What did he want?”
“I have no idea. He just called and said he needed to talk to me.” Greg moved closer, studying my face. “Are you okay, Odelia?”
I’d been leaning against his doorjamb. Wainwright had returned to the bed Greg kept in the corner for him. At the question I melted, sliding down the edge of the door frame to the floor into a soppy puddle. The tears had been there all along, just barely held
back during the drive from my office to Ocean Breeze. Wainwright immediately left his bed and came to me, nudging my chin and giving me doggie kisses. Animals always seem to know when you’re upset.
“Sweetheart,” Greg said, his voice concerned, “what’s the matter?”
“I…I,” I began, then stopped to take several deep breaths. Like a scared cat hiding under the table, my words didn’t want to come out. Once they were out, they were real. I took another deep breath. But the truth was, whether they were whispered or shouted from the top of the highest building in Orange County, what had happened was real. I gave Wainwright a big hug around his thick neck and told him to go back to his bed. I could tell he wanted to stay with me, but his solid training won out. He returned to his big round soft cushion, from where he kept a careful eye on me.
“I…I,” I tried again. “I was fired!” The three words shot out, quick and harsh like small, sharp slaps.
Greg’s mouth dropped open. A few seconds later, he rolled over to his door to quickly close it and give us privacy. I got to my feet so he could. “You were fired?” he asked.
I nodded, then shook my head side to side. I took one of the visitor chairs in Greg’s office. Greg rolled over to the other side of his desk to retrieve a box of tissues. He handed it to me. I pulled out a couple and mopped up my face. I noticed my makeup was coming off with my waterworks. Great. Now I’d look like a sobbing zombie.
“Were you fired or not?” asked Greg. He’d moved to the side of my chair and held a comforting hand to my back. I felt the warmth through my blouse and immediately started calming down.
“Kind of, sort of,” I sniffed. I grabbed a few more tissues and began blotting around my eyes, especially under them, where I was sure my melting mascara was pooling. Waterproof, my fat ass.
“A little more clarification, please,” Greg prodded.
I left my chair. Greg has a tiny fridge in his office. It’s installed under one of the counters behind his desk. There’s a larger one in the small breakroom for his employees, but he liked to keep water and snacks closer to him. Before I answered, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted the top off, and gulped down a good third of its contents. I still hadn’t told him about Kelton Kingston’s connection with T&T. Now there was no way to avoid it.
“It has to do with Marla Kingston,” I told him once I came up for air. I leaned against the counter, clutching the water to me like a lifeline. The bottle was cold and wet against my blouse. I didn’t care if it left a wet spot. It felt good. I took another slurp from the bottle while Greg watched me, fidgeting as he waited for more information. “Kelton Kingston is a client of the firm. A big client who brings in lots of income.”
“You never told me that,” Greg said, his face showing surprise.
“I don’t talk about our clients. You know that,” I replied.
“Yeah, I know, but you should have told me this over the weekend, considering what happened.”
“I thought it would just blow over,” I sniffed. “Instead, it’s blown up—in my face.” I took another drink of water.
“Okay,” Greg said. “Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.” Greg was on full alert.
“According to Steele,” I reported, “Kelton Kingston called his good buddy Joe Templin yesterday afternoon at home demanding that the firm sue the people who broke into his wife’s car and humiliated her. Templin said they couldn’t handle the lawsuit because I was an employee of the firm and it would be a conflict of interest. Steele said Templin claimed he tried to calm Kingston down and offered some sort of settlement, like maybe we would pay for the broken window and provide a public apology.”
“Like hell!” Greg spit out. “We did nothing wrong. I’m not apologizing to the Kingstons and neither are you—not even to save your job. And what right does Templin have to even make such a suggestion without speaking to you first—or did he?” From his corner, Wainwright went on alert.
Holding my right hand palm down, I patted the air, pushing it down as if into a box, gesturing for Greg to calm down. If he calmed down, the dog would also relax. “No, he didn’t,” I continued, “but let me finish.” I took another deep breath. “Apparently, Kingston wasn’t satisfied with that offer either.”
“So what does the ass want?” Greg asked. His hands were on the wheels of his wheelchair, inching it back and forth as if he was preparing to push off for a race. Greg did that when he was agitated, like he was getting ready to launch himself at an opponent.
“In a nutshell,” I answered, “he wants my head. He told Templin that unless the firm fires me, he will pull all of his business from it.”
“That’s preposterous!” Upon hearing the anger in Greg’s voice, Wainwright made a move to get up, but Greg commanded him to lay back down again. Greg stopped fidgeting with his wheelchair and zeroed his eyes in on mine. “I was the one who broke that window, not you. The firm can’t take your job away for that.” He ran a hand through his hair—another nervous gesture. “What does Steele have to say about this? I can’t believe he’d go for it.”
I pictured Steele coming into my office, his face flushed, shoulders tense, to tell me what was going on. At first I had thought he was angry with me and I was ready to defend myself, but in short order it became clear he was angry with the firm, specifically with Joe Templin. “He’s not happy with this at all,” I told Greg. “In fact, he and Templin got into a knock-down, drag-out fight over it on the phone this morning.”
Before I could say another word, Greg grabbed his cell phone from the desk and dialed. My money was on either Seth Washington for legal advice or Steele. Greg put it on speaker, and after just two rings the call was answered. It was door number two.
“I’ve been expecting your call, Greg,” Steele said in a weary voice.
“Mike,” Greg barked into the phone, “what is this bullshit about Odelia losing her job? I’m the one who broke that window, or are you the only one on the planet who hasn’t seen the videos of it?”
“Calm down, Greg,” Steele said, “before you pop a wheelie. And Odelia wasn’t fired. We put her on administrative leave until we can get this sorted out and Kingston calmed down.”
Greg glanced at me. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” I countered.
“We’re hoping,” Steele said, “that Kingston’s anger will dissipate quickly and he’ll move on to some other poor schmuck to terrorize. Maybe there’s an orphanage he can burn down.”
Poor schmuck? But this wasn’t the time to quibble.
“And if he doesn’t drop this stupidity?” Greg asked. “If he persists? What then?”
“We’ll address that then,” Steele answered. He paused. “Look, guys, Simon Tobin really likes Odelia, and she’s done him a few personal favors. He’s out of the country right now, but we’ve spoken to him. I know he’ll go to bat for her. He doesn’t care for Kingston one bit and has a lot of sway over Templin.”
“You know, Mike,” Greg said, “I’m not a lawyer, but I am an employer, and I’m not so sure the firm can treat Odelia like this. Maybe we should get some legal advice to be on the safe side.”
A big sigh, thick as a plank, came from the phone. “As I told Odelia, the firm decided to put her on administrative leave, with pay, until they sort this out. The firm’s board is going to review this and make a decision. In spite of the work Kingston brings to the firm, he’s not well liked. Only Joe Templin seems to tolerate him.”
“Birds of a feather,” Greg snapped.
“Look,” Steele said, “I’m in a tight spot here. I’m your friend, but I’m also a partner and have a duty to the firm. But, believe me, when Kingston first told Templin that he wanted you two sued, Templin immediately said he couldn’t do it. Templin is not happy about this either. We just need to be patient and wait out Kingston’s tantrum. He’s nothing but a
big baby. This thing with the dog showed his wife in a bad light, and all the videos on the net and TV didn’t help. His pride is hurt, along with hers. They aren’t people who take being humiliated lightly.”
“We were in the right, Steele, and you know it,” I said, adding to the discussion. “The cops on the scene knew it and the crowd knew it. So will a court unless Kingston pays off people.”
“I really don’t think it’s going to come to that, Grey,” Steele said. “So just relax for the next week or so, get your nails done, redecorate your house, have a spa day with Zee. It will all work out in the end.”
Greg and I stared at each other in silence. We both trusted Steele but didn’t trust the firm. Not that I thought my employer was dishonest; I didn’t. But when faced with losing a major part of their income, I wasn’t sure loyalty to an employee who’d only been with them a few years would rise to the top. My old firm had burned me even after decades of service. I could see that Greg was thinking the same. Behind his blue eyes the gears were working, grinding out our possibilities and our chances.
“Steele,” Greg finally said into the phone, his voice tight as strings on a violin, “I know we can trust you to do the right thing, but I’m not so sure about the firm. We’ll sit tight for now, but know that if Odelia’s job or reputation is damaged in any way, we’ll be lawyering up.”
When the call ended, I took my seat on the other side of the desk next to Greg. He took my hand, a small gesture that made me feel better. We sat in silence a few minutes, mulling over the conversation with Steele. Finally, Greg said, “You know, sweetheart, we’d be fine financially if you didn’t work there.”
It was the conversation we’d had before when the rumor of T&T closing their Orange County office first raised its head. “I know,” I answered, turning my face toward him. “But I like working, and I like my job.”
“You’d find another or maybe even something else. You’re really good at computer research. Maybe you could work as a contractor doing that, like that woman who used to do it for you and Steele.” Greg squeezed my hand. “I’ll bet even Steele and the firm would throw work your way.”
Too Big to Die Page 5