Backtracker (12 page)

Glad that
he'd
pacified Cindy, at least for the moment, Dave headed back to the fry station.

At that point, just as he was girding himself to weather the rest of the rush, he felt another hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mr. Wyland, the executive manager.

"
Um, Dave
?
"
said Mr. Wyland, an unreadable expression on his round face.
"
Do you have a minute?
"

"
Well, not really,
"
Dave said tentatively.
"
I
'
m kind of busy right now.
"

"
Well, I need to talk to you for a minute. What if I got someone to cover your station?
"
Though Fred Wyland was only in his late thirties, his hair was silver. Aside from the color of his hair, he really
didn
'
t
look old; he was short and slightly pudgy, though he
didn
'
t
have a great belly like Mr. Martin, and his general appearance was that of a man in his thirties. The silver hair seemed odd, unnatural, as if the premature lightening had been triggered by some terrible, secret experience in Mr. Wyland
'
s past.

"
Who can you get to cover for me
?
"
asked Dave, wondering what was so urgent that Mr. Wyland
couldn
'
t
wait to tell him about it.
"
Everybody
'
s tied up, aren
'
t they?
"

"
I
'
ll bring Mitch out of the dishroom,
"
said the manager, absentmindedly scratching his left earlobe.
"
You
'
ve got things pretty well caught
-
up, don
'
t you?
"

"
Well, not really,
"
shrugged Dave.
"
I
'
m kind
'
a backed
-
up, actually.
"

"
Hm,
"
said Mr. Wyland, glancing at the fry station.
"
I see.
"
For an instant, the boss looked around the cooking area, apparently considering whether it would be wise to substitute Mitch for Dave. Finally, he nodded decisively and returned his gaze to Dave.
"
I
'
ll only be keeping you a minute or two,
"
he declared.
"
How about if you go tell Mitch to come out, and then meet me in the office?
"

"
All right,
"
said Dave.
"
I
'
ll be in in a minute, Mr. Wyland.
"

"
Um, good,
"
approved the boss.
"
Thanks.
"
With that, he turned his back to Dave and headed down the line, pausing only for a second to peep over Billy
'
s shoulder at the broiler.

Baffled by the mysterious summons, Dave grabbed a rag and quickly swabbed the greasy counter of the fry station. He wiped his hands, which were also greasy, and searched his mind for a clue to the reason for Mr. Wyland
'
s impromptu meeting. It was certainly unusual for a manager to call an employee into the office during a hectic supper rush, when all able bodies were needed to handle the influx of customers.

Pondering Wyland
'
s strange invitation, Dave notified Billy of the situation, then went to the dishroom and told Mitch to take over as fry cook. When he finally entered the managers
'
office, he still
hadn
'
t
figured out what exactly Wyland might have to say to him.

"
Um, close the door, would you
?
"
said Mr. Wyland, his expression noncommittal.

Frowning, Dave pulled the door shut. He remained standing in front of it, mainly because there was nowhere to sit; the office was tiny, little more than a closet, and Mr. Wyland had claimed the only chair.

"
Did you get Mitch to come out front
?
"
asked the manager, leaning back in the black swivel chair, folding his hands in his lap.

"
Uh
-
huh,
"
nodded Dave, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"
Good,
"
said Fred Wyland.
"
He
'
s coming along pretty well, don
'
t you think?
"

"
Sure,
"
said Dave.

"
He just needs a few more hours at the fry station,
"
said the boss, and then he paused and looked down at his hands.

"
So what
'
s up
?
"
asked Dave.

Mr. Wyland hesitated, rocked his chair back a bit further. The swivel upon which the seat was mounted creaked softly.
"
Well,
"
said the manager, eyes still trained on his hands.
"
I, um, heard something, and I was hoping you could clarify it for me.
"

"
What did you hear
?
"
asked Dave.

"
Um, well,
"
continued Wyland.
"
It
'
s something that surprised me, and I wanted to hear your side of the story.
"

"
So what is it
?
"
pressed Dave.

"
I, um, don
'
t want you to think that I
'
m out to get you,
"
declared the boss.
"
You
'
re one of the best people we
'
ve got.
"

"
Thanks,
"
said Dave, still frowning, wishing that Wyland would get to the point.

"
It
'
s just that, well, I can
'
t ignore this.
"
Tilting the chair forward, Mr. Wyland lifted his gaze from his hands, looked directly at Dave. From the expression on his face, Dave could tell that the manager was as uncomfortable as he was.

"
What do you mean
?
"
Dave asked tensely.

"
I was just, um...wondering,
"
said Mr. Wyland.
"
Have you ever taken any chocolate milk out of the walk
-
in?
"

The question hit Dave like a wrecking ball. For an instant, he just froze; though he managed to maintain a poker face for the boss, he was absolutely flabbergasted.

Had he heard correctly? Had Mr. Wyland actually asked him about the
"
black gold
"
? How could he know?
Better yet, what could Dave
say
?
Should he lie? Should he confess? How much did the manager know?

Clari
on alarms whooping in his head,
Dave struggled to collect his wits and figure out what to tell Mr. Wyland. In lieu of a brilliant inspiration, he decided to stall.
"
Uh, why do you ask
?
"
he said.

"
Well, for a while now, the other managers and I have been noticing some inventory discrepancies.
"
Unfolding his hands, Mr. Wyland moved them to the black armrests of the chair.
"
Um, it seemed like we were going through more of certain items than we were selling...like chocolate milk, for one. At first, we just thought we were miscounting, but the discrepancies kept showing up. We, um, figured that someone on the crew, or more than one person, was helping themselves to the chocolate milk.
"
Pausing, he narrowed his eyes and stared intently at Dave, as if trying to judge the degree of his guilt.
"
We kept an eye out, but we could never catch anyone taking anything they weren
'
t supposed to. Then, we started asking around, and, um, your name came up.
"

"
Really
?
"
frowned Dave, keeping his voice level only with great effort.

"
Your name was mentioned,
"
Wyland said with a slight shrug.
"
Um, someone told me they
'
d heard you say you were drinking chocolate milk in the walk
-
in.
"

"
Who said this
?
"
asked Dave, his bewildered frown deepening.

"
One of your fellow employees,
"
said Mr. Wyland, his eyes wandering to the cluttered counter beside him, the beige
Formica
shelf which served as a desk.
"
I
'
d rather not say who it was, but I think they
'
re pretty reliable.
"

Dave started to say something, then stopped. He shook his head once and sighed, looked down at the floor. He
couldn
'
t
believe it: someone had turned him in, violated the unspoken code of the steakhouse, the unwritten pact of mutual protection. It
didn
'
t
seem possible; in all the years that
he'd
worked at Wild West, no one had ever spilled the beans to management, told the bosses that anyone was snacking on the sly.
"
Honor among thieves,
"
Larry Smith had said, and that was exactly how it had been; everyone had their hands in the cookie jar at one time or another, and they never betrayed anyone else because they
didn
'
t
want to ruin things for themselves.

Remembering his discussion with Larry and Billy the night before made him feel doubly disgusted. Without reservation,
he'd
boasted about the wonderful honor system at the steakhouse, bragged about the things
he'd
gotten away with, defended the trustworthiness of the people with whom he worked
-
and now, all of a sudden, the system had disintegrated, and someone had betrayed his trust. He felt like a fool, an authentic simpleton; he felt as if
he'd
jinxed himself by doing all that cocky boasting.

He wondered who had been cruel enough to double
-
cross him like this.

"
So who told you all this stuff
?
"
he asked.

"
It doesn
'
t matter,
"
said Wyland.
"
What matters is if it
'
s true or not.
"
He paused, waiting for Dave to comment, but Dave remained silent.
"
Um, I hope you understand,
"
said the manager.
"
We just can
'
t let you guys drink the chocolate milk. We pay a lot more for it than we do for soda, so we can
'
t afford to let the employees have it for free.
"

"
I know,
"
Dave said quietly.

"
Um, I don
'
t want to make a big deal out of this. I
'
m not out to punish anyone.
"
Propping his elbows on the armrests of the chair, the boss raised his hands to form a steeple, fingertips touching.
"
All I want is for whoever
'
s drinking the milk to stop it.
"