Chapter 13: Badges

Nobody moved toward the pens.

Damon's assistant held the box out anyway, smiling at the front row.

"I'll set up on the loading dock," Damon said. "Where you clock out. Nobody has to make a show of it."

He came down the two steps and walked right past me.

"Take the evening, Elise," he said. "Let them think."

At ten to eleven I went down to the dock.

The night was thick and warm and smelled like diesel and the Gulf.

The roll-up doors were open on the alley behind the hotel.

A folding table stood under the yellow dock light, with the letter in a neat stack and the box of pens beside it.

Damon's assistant sat behind it.

Damon leaned on a pallet of bottled water, scrolling his phone.

The evening shift was lined up along the wall by the time clock.

So was the day shift, which should have gone home at four.

Dorinda stood at the end of the line with her arms folded.

Noah was by the dumpsters in the alley, outside the light, where he couldn't be accused of standing with anyone.

I walked up to the table, and the whole line watched me do it.

"Before anyone clocks out," I said. "I want to say something."

Damon looked up from his phone, amused.

"Sign it," I said to the line.

"Sign it. You've got rent and kids and car notes. I won't think less of anybody. I mean that."

"I'll still be here tomorrow either way."

The line cook was fourth from the front.

He looked at me, and then at the table.

"No," he said.

He walked up to the time clock, punched his card and walked past the assistant without looking at the pens.

The dishwasher was next, in his rubber boots.

He punched his card.

"I've got a piece of the last thing he wanted me to sign," he said to the assistant. "It's got gumbo on it."

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