Bentley Little - The Store

1

Bill drove to the Roundup, parked his Jeep in the dirt lot on the side of the dumpy, windowless building, and walked inside, stopping just within the doorway to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior.

Ben was at the bar, where he'd said he'd be, a full shot glass and a half a bottle of J & B scotch in front of him.

Bill walked around the crowded pool table and past the jukebox, where a pair of cowboys were arguing over what song to play. The saloon was one of the few businesses in town that wasn't hurting. Of course, now that he'd thought that, The Store would probably apply for a beer and wine license, open up a lounge next to the sushi bar, and suck away the Roundup's life.

_A corporate vampire_.

Ben had called him, fifteen minutes ago, already half-crocked, and said he wanted to meet at the saloon. Bill had asked why, but his friend wouldn't say, would tell him only that it was "important," and though Bill hadn't wanted to go, had wanted to continue watching TV with Ginny, he'd sensed the urgency in Ben's voice, and he'd forced himself to get off the couch, put on his socks and shoes, hunted up his wallet and keys, and driven to the Roundup.

_Important_. That could be good or it could be bad.

Bill was betting on bad.

He stepped up to the bar, sat down on the stool next to Ben, motioned to the bartender for a beer. "So what is it?" he asked. "What's the big news?"

"I've been fired," Ben said.

Bill blinked dumbly, not sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"

"I've been fired. Terminated. Let go. Newtin sold the paper." He smiled wryly. "Want to guess to whom?"

"The Store?"

Ben poured himself another shot. "Bingo."

"But why? There's only one paper in town. He had a monopoly. Everyone had to buy ads with him --"

Ben waved dismissively. "That doesn't matter. There's no real money to be made in Juniper. It's a break-even prospect at best. Newtin's been trying to unload it for several years now." He shook his head. "I guess he finally found a buyer."

"How did you find out?"

"Fax. You think he'd drive all the way up to Juniper just to tell me that he's sold the paper and my ass is fired? Hell, no. Besides, that pussy's too chickenshit to face me."

"And they fired you?"

"First thing. Laura was promoted to editor; I was told to hit the pavement. Herb and Trudy and Al and all the production people were kept on.

Traitorous brown-nosers."

"You were fired? Not demoted?"

"Exactamente."

"Shit."

Ben drained his glass. "There goes the election."

"You think so?"

"As you said, they had the radio station, we had the newspaper. Now they have both."

"You think that's why they bought it?"

"No," Ben said sarcastically. His voice was becoming slurred. "They have no interest whatsoever in controlling the news and information in this town.

They want to sponsor and subsidize the fourth estate out of the goodness of their corporate hearts."

The bartender set a glass of beer in front of Bill, who dug the money out of his pocket to pay him.

He took a sip, turned back toward Ben. "So what are you going to do?" he asked.

"Hell. My little trailer is paid off. I can live for a while."

"But what are you going to _do_?"

"Freelance." Ben looked around, lowered his voice. "I'm thinking of doing a Store expose. I could probably sell it to the _Wall Street Journal_ or _Time_ or _Newsweek_. It's timely. It's of national interest. The Store's an up-and coming corporation, Newman King's a big mystery man -- and you know how the public is fascinated by that shit. I think it could be a really good article."

He smiled grimly as he poured himself another shot. "Besides, I have scores to settle."

They sat there for a while, drinking, not talking, listening to the self pitying songs the cowboys had chosen for the jukebox. Bill finished his beer, called for one more. Ben finished his bottle and plunked down bills for another.

"Take it easy," Bill suggested. "You're already two sheets to the wind."

"I'm going for five." Ben poured and polished off another glass. "We shoulda monkey-wrenched 'em," he said. "Shoulda spiked some trees, sabotaged some equipment, poured sugar in some gas tanks."

"The first construction workers were from Juniper," Bill pointed out.

"Fuck 'em. Besides, The Store woulda taken the financial hit, not our good oF local boys." He closed his eyes, continued to talk. "Local boys. There were trees on that property that were old when their great-greatgrandfathers were nothing more than ambitious sperm, you know that? That fucking hillock was probably millions of years old. And it was demolished by men born less than twenty-five years ago!"

"You're drunk," Bill said. "And you're getting loud."

"I don't care!"

"Come on. Let me drive you home."

"I don't want to go home."

The bartender walked over, confiscated his bottle and glass. "Your friend's driving you home. You've had enough."

Ben nodded docilely, got off his stool, almost fell, then, concentrating hard, walked toward the door. Bill followed him, ready to offer support if necessary. He didn't feel entirely clearheaded himself, but he wasn't drunk, and he led Ben over to the Jeep, buckled him in, and drove him home, making sure that he was safely inside the trailer before driving off.

The movie they'd been watching had long since ended, and Ginny had turned off the lights in the front of the house and was in the bedroom riding the exercise bike. She told him to get ready for bed, but he wasn't tired and he said that he had some work to do.

He walked back to his office, sat down in front of his PC, and accessed Freelink. He thought for a moment, then called up a global bulletin board and typed in the heading: "The Store." In the space reserved for message text, he typed: "Is there anyone else out there who's had problems with the discount retail chain The Store?" He gave no name but left his E-mail address, then went out to the kitchen, heated up some old coffee, and sat back down.

He already had five messages waiting.

His heart began to race. He'd gotten the coffee because he thought it might help him stay awake, but now he didn't even need the caffeine, and he pushed the coffee cup aside and called up his E-mail.

The first message was from someone calling himself Big Bob, and it described efforts to get a simple refund for a sprinkler as a cross between _1984_ and _Catch-22_. The second message was from an anonymous Hispanic woman who claimed that The Store discriminated against minorities and that not only had The Store refused to hire her, but it had banned her from shopping there.

The reason she could not give her name or the name of her town, she explained, was because she had filed suit against The Store and she had reason to believe that her phone lines were tapped, that The Store was listening in on her phone conversations and reading what she wrote online.

A chill passed through Bill as he read the woman's story. Under other circumstances, he'd probably consider her tale the unfounded allegations of a raving paranoid. But he believed every word she wrote, and he found himself wondering if _his_ phone lines were tapped, if The Store's security people were listening in on his conversations, reading his online messages. He looked around the room. His office seemed suddenly darker, filled with shadows, and he wished he'd turned on both lights instead of just the little desk lamp.

He called up the third message. This one was from a journalist, Keith Beck, who said that in his town The Store had not only economically decimated the area by killing off local businesses but had instigated feuds among local residents. The Store was a disruptive influence, Beck said, and was completely changing the character of the town. He added that The Store had constructed its building on an environmentally sensitive parcel of land, not waiting for the conclusion of an environmental impact report, buying the cooperation of elected officials.