“Okay, so you have exactly”—I look at my Loki watch…and then shove it behind my back when I catch sight of his fancy-spensive one. God—“thirty-eight minutes.” Toss in a friendly and hopefully encouraging pat on the shoulder even though I feel weird touching him.
“Why am I doing this, again?” he says.
“Because you’re a good guy doing a good deed. That money could change an old lady’s final years into something she’s never even dreamed of.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want her life to be changed.” He yawns, and I shake my head, instantly irritated. This guy has no idea what it’s like to constantly be on the brink of not having what you need to survive.
Must be nice.
“Mr. Zoughbi will walk back into the store at precisely eight-fifteen.” I stand, frankly wanting to get the hell away from him. He reeks too much of money right now and it makes me wanna barf and punch him right in the sternum where his buttons are jacked up. Preferably at the same time. “All yours,” I say.
No response.
Peek over the shoulder. He’s knocked out. Mouth open and everything.
“Macklin!”
“Huh?” He shoots up. “What happened?”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his eyes. “Forty-eight minutes—”
“Thirty-eight. Actually no…thirty-six now.”
He cracks his knuckles and whips a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket.
Of course he’s even more attractive in nerd mode. Which does nothing but increase my irritation in this moment. “I’ll be out there restocking candy bars if you need anything. Leaving the office door open.”
“Mm-hmm.” He starts typing away.
I don’t move. He’s managed to pull up a black screen with a bunch of green letters and numbers and symbols scrolling on it. And still typing. I have no idea how long I stand there looking between the screen and his Concentration Face, but he suddenly stops typing.
He pushes his glasses up on his nose (Stop it, Zanny-Zan-the-Man!). “The doorbell just rang,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Customer?”
“Oh my gosh!” I rush out of the office, and he totally snorts. It’ll be a miracle to make it through the next half hour without steam shooting out of all my facial orifices.
Then I see the glistening bald spot of the man standing in front of one of the open cooler doors, and I immediately want to go back into the office and maybe hide under the desk.
It’s Mr. Fifty.
When he starts to turn around, I pretend to busy myself with straightening cigarette cartons.
“Rico!” he says once he reaches the counter.
I look over my shoulder. Let my eyebrows rise. “Wow! You’re up early for a Saturday.”
“Ha! Look who’s talkin’!”
“Employment calls.” I shrug.
“Me too, kid, me too,” he says. “You’re having a decent morning, I hope?”
“Not too shabby. Yourself?”
He looks at his watch. (Which looks like Zan’s. Figures.) “Late. But doesn’t really matter when you’re the boss, right?” A wink.
Blegh, go away!
He pays for his vittles and beverage ($44.17 in change), then smiles. “You have a good one, all right, Rico?”
“Will do, sir. Same to you.”
As soon as the door closes behind Mr. Fifty, Zan speaks. Well, yells really. “Hey, IQ?”
“Stop calling me that!”
He laughs. “I take it you’re alone out there?”
“Yeah…”
“Okay. Just thought you should know the security footage is encrypted.”
Uhhhh…“And in noncomputer dork, that means what exactly?”
“Shut your hole.”
A few seconds go by.
“No, for real,” I say, kneeling to do the candy bars. “What does that mean?”
“Means more work.”
Sugar biscuits. “How much more work?”
“Mmmm…For me? A good half an hour at least.”
Watch check. “You got twenty-two minutes, Macklin!”
“Look, you ingrate, I’m working as fast as I can. Just letting you know I might not be able to crack it within your ridiculous time constraint!”
Inhale. Exhale. “Anything I can help you with?”
“One of those artificially colored and flavored mocha cappuccino things would be nice,” he says.
I go to the machine and make the drink. Take it to him.
He’s holding an active fidget spinner in his left hand—this one’s gold.
“What’s with those?” I nod toward it.
“Sometimes you just need something to do with your hands, you know?” He sets the spinner on the desk—still spinning—and reaches for the coffee. Looks into the cup, then up at me. “You’re a god-awful barista, IQ.”
“What?”
“Where the hell’s the whipped cream?”
“UGH!” Freakin’ rich people! I turn to go back to the machine, but he hooks a finger into my apron string and pulls me back.
“I’m messin’ with you, Rico. Take a chill pill, will ya?”
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” I set the coffee on the desk.
“And you are higher-strung than a superkite. We need to get you some good weed or something.” He takes a sip of the coffee.
“Are you serious?!”
“About which part?” He goes back to typing. “I gotta say, though: I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. Is that weird?”
“Umm…yes.”
“Hmm. Well, you have to admit we’ve got rapport, you and me.”
I find myself silently agreeing in spite of the needling little voice telling me to compare his and my footwear (me: used and abused Keds I got for $2.50 at a flea market; him: what are surely the latest and greatest Nike Air Maxes).
Thankfully, though, before I have a chance to spiral and run away, some parking lot footage pops up on the screen.