Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

“Ohio is that bad,” Darrell quipped. “Not as bad as the place we’re heading. Kansas.”

“Have you ever been to Kansas?”

“Read about it.”

“Doesn’t count.” Jeff crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “What do you make of this guy?” he asked. “I mean, really, do you think we should be expending all this energy and government money looking for him?”

“Absolutely,” Darrell answered. “He embezzled. Big time, too. What was the figure?”

“A hundred and fourteen million.”

Darrell whistled. “And you have to ask. Not only did he steal it, not only did he launder it so well, but… but he took it from the United States government. Right under our noses.”

Jeff snickered.

“What’s so funny?” Darrell asked.

“Well, I mean, come on. Did you take a look at the funds he stole from? I didn’t know we had most of those. Hell, I bet the people who qualify for those funds didn’t even know.”

“Jeff,” Darrell tossed a serious glance his way, “he steals from the government. He steals from me and you. Now he has the mob helping him.”

“We don’t know that. Hasn’t been proven.” Jeff picked up the takeout bag and started eating the fries from the bottom.

“The man changed identities, background, and locations seventeen times in three years. He’s getting help. Big help.”

Jeff shrugged. “Valid point. But this tip sounds good. Do you really think he’s pulling off impersonating a Baptist minister?”

“Jeff, the Latino man pulled off being a black author for three months in Iowa.”

“But that was Iowa.” Jeff tilted his head. “I would think people in Kansas would be a little smarter.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the territory racist,” Darrell snapped.

“Me?” Jeff laughed. “You. How many remarks did you make about Ohio?”

“But it’s Ohio.”

Jeff bobbed his head. “True. And Iowa is pretty close to…” He snapped his fingers in thought. “Hey, Iowa isn’t too far, is it?”

“Why?”

Jeff hurriedly pulled out the atlas. “Thought so. We sort of have to zip by it. We could check out that ‘past black author’ thing while passing by… Davenport.”

“Davenport?” Darrell questioned. “What’s in Davenport, Iowa?”

“River boat casino gambling.”

Darrell smiled. “See where we can take that detour.”

“Got it.” Jeff dove into the atlas.

“See? We always make the best out of our road trips, don’t we?”

Jeff smiled. “We certainly do.”

Lodi, Ohio

Thomas Roberts was as country as country could get. Even moving to Lodi when he was in his mid-twenties didn’t take the farm boy accent from him. His glasses were a style from decades earlier. He kept his salt and pepper hair combed neatly, despite the fact that it was too short to really style. And always, without fail, he wore a dress shirt and tie to work, even if they didn’t match. Thomas was pretty tall, and prided himself on the fact that his posture was good. At sixty-two years old he stood as tall as he had when he was twenty.

Tom spoke slowly and seriously to his daughter, Dylan. “Up… sell.”

Dylan nodded and gave a thumbs up. “Upsell. Got it.”

“No, you don’t. You’re pacifying me,” Tom snapped. “Let’s review.”

“Daddy, let’s not,” Dylan complained as she stood before the video counter. She shifted her eyes toward Mick who, as usual, was leaning against the counter. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Dylan asked Mick. “Like eating donuts or something?”

“You’re killing me,” Mick said.

“Leave the law alone,” Tom told her. “Back to this.” He pointed to the display case. “The name of the game is suggestive selling. Do you realize you are my only employee who never sells anything but video rentals?”

“We rent videos.”

“What is this?” Tom asked.

“Candy and stuff.”

“Candy and stuff.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Looks to me like a bit more than videos. I put them here for a reason, Dylan. What would that reason be?”

“To sell?” Dylan asked.

“Exactly. Do you sell this stuff?”

“Nobody ever wants to buy on my shift.” She shrugged. “What can I do?”

“Up… sell,” Tom reiterated. “Suggest a candy bar, a bag of popcorn. Suggest something. I have to move this merchandise before I get the special items in for when Lars arrives. Now, Joey does real good.”

“Joey is a teenager who buys the candy himself,” Dylan said.

“Still it’s a sale on his shift. That’s why he’s my best employee.”

“I should be your best employee. I’m your daughter.”

“I don’t play favorites. Now…” Tom stepped back, “get behind the counter again, and let me see your sales technique.”

“Oh, this is really lame.” Dylan folded her arms and walked back to her ‘behind the counter’ position.

“Smile,” Tom instructed. “And practice here on Chief Owens.”

“Christ,” Dylan complained. “He’s our worst customer.”

“Hey,” Mick snapped in defense. “And I believe you shouldn’t be swearing in front of patrons. Should she, Mr. Roberts?”

“Absolutely not,” Tom said. “Especially blasphemy. Now, go on Mick. Approach the counter.”

Mick hurried to the back, snatched a movie, walked back to the counter and laid it down. He flashed a grin.

After hesitating, Dylan played along. “Video card, please.”

Mick handed it to her.

Dylan shifted her eyes at her father’s whispering, “Upsell.”

She looked back at Mick. “Care for any candy?”

“No. Just the video,” Mick said.

Dylan huffed. “Dad.”

Tom tossed up his hand. “You didn’t convince me. I wouldn’t buy from you either. Try again.”

Irritated by Mick’s snarky smile, Dylan started to get antsy, but she tried to appease her father. “You know, Chief Owens, we have your favorite chocolate covered peanuts. Mmm. How about a box?”

“Nah. Just the video.”

Grunting, Dylan grabbed the video. “Fine, that gut of yours doesn’t need candy anyhow.”

“What gut!” Mick blasted.

“Dylan,” Tom scolded, “I don’t believe insulting the customer works.”

Snidely, Mick leaned down closer to Dylan. “Tell you what…”

“Oh, boy.” She rolled her eyes.

“I will come in here,” Mick continued, “every single night you’re working…”

“You do anyhow.”

“Let me finish.” Mick held up his hand. “I’ll come in here every night, video rental or not, and buy something from you if… if you’ll…” The sound of the door opening didn’t silence Mick as much as the sight of Sam walking in did.

“Hey, Dylan.” Sam smiled. “Mr. Roberts… Mick.” Sam turned to the counter. “Just brought the boys back.”

“Thanks.” Dylan smiled. “Are they home?”

“Yep. Fed too.” Sam said, nervously. “You know, I have this car to work on, but… I can work on it tomorrow if, you know, you might be in the mood to do the family thing tonight. You, me, the boys, go to Central Park, watch the concert…”

Before Dylan could answer, Tom did. “She can’t. I’m taking the boys to the concert and she’s working until after ten. You’re out of luck.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “All right. I’ll come by then.”

“She might be later,” Tom added. “Not that I’ll pay her, she takes so damn long to close the store. Wouldn’t count on it.”

“Still,” Sam shrugged, “I’ll stop by. Do you mind, Dylan?”

Dylan shook her head. “No. If you want.”

“Ok.” Sam smiled. “See you later.” He walked to the door. “Mr. Roberts… Mick.”