Chapter 6: The Gas Station

The Hallworth Freight depot sits out by the airport, forty bays and a yard full of white trailers.

Clifford wanted to see the morning shift go out, so I drove him there in the Buick.

Meredith followed in her own car because she had a safety meeting at nine.

We were still parking when I heard Preston shouting.

He stood at the end of bay six with a clipboard, in front of about thirty drivers.

A gray-haired man in a canvas jacket stood facing him with his cap in his hands.

"Thirty-one years, and you scraped a trailer on a loading door," Preston said. "That's a four thousand dollar repair. Do you know what that costs?"

"It was raining, sir. The dock plate was stuck."

"So you're blaming the weather. A week's pay. And you can scrub the restroom while you think about it."

Somebody in the crowd muttered.

Preston turned his head toward the sound and smiled.

"Anybody else want a week?"

Nobody moved.

Clifford put his hand on the car door, but I was already out.

I walked across the yard.

Meredith saw me and started walking too.

"Floyd," she said, "don't."

"I won't hit him."

"That isn't what I'm afraid of."

I stopped in front of Preston and held out my hand for the clipboard.

"What do you want?" he said.

"The write-up."

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to read what it says."

He laughed. "It says he's fired if I decide he is."

I took the clipboard out of his hand.

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