EVERY DAY after work I go to the punch clock. Above the clock there is a big board with enough slots in it to hold a card for each person who works at Pure Spring. I lift my card from my slot and dip it into the clock. The clock chungs and a bell rings. I pull out my card and read it. It gives the date and the time. I’ve worked an hour overtime today. That’s probably why I’m so tired. I reach up and drop the card back into its slot. Sore arms.
There’s a note sticking up. It’s from Anita. She wants me to go to her office.
Anita’s at her desk. Frilly blue blouse this time. Lots of lipstick and perfume. Eyelashes waving like fans.
“Right choo are!” she says and shows me with her hand the chair across from her. Her arm jingles with many colored bracelets.
“How’s it going with Randy?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. Sometimes Randy is...Well, you see, Mr. Mirsky is always doing things, favors for people, and he hired Randy because he’s the son of an old friend of Mr. Mirsky’s. You see, when Randy was around fifteen or so, he fell out of the Ferris wheel at the Ottawa Exhibition — fell right on his head — and he’s never been quite right since.”
“He is kind of strange,” I say softly.
“He’s had it rough. As if falling out of a Ferris wheel on your noggin wasn’t bad enough, his mother a little later ran off with some crazy Communist to start a colony somewhere where nobody would own anything but at the same time everybody would own everything.
“And on top of that, just last year, last December, Randy’s younger brother was killed in an accident while the Canadian soldiers were arriving in Pusan, Korea, getting ready to fight the Commies there.”
Buz, I’m thinking. Buz.
“Anyway, Randy’s starting to fall apart, in my opinion. I’d fire him in a minute but Mr. Mirsky won’t. Always wants to give him a chance. There’s been complaints about him recently. Maybe stealing from the customers.”
“Stealing?” I say.
“Yeah. And some rumors are going around about Randy and his weird ideas.”
“Weird ideas?”
“Yeah. Weird ideas. Anyway, he seems interested in you. Asked to see your application form the other day.”
“Yeah. Not a bad thing, I guess. Get to know who you’re working with. By the way, your grampa, Rip Sawyer. I’ve met him. He used to work with old man Mirsky, using pure spring water filtering out of the limestone, Nanny Goat Hill, you know, Bronson and Wellington, Booth and Wellington streets — around there. Good man, Rip Sawyer. Honest as the day is long, as they say.”
“I’m really hungry. I think I better get home for supper,” I say, trying not to be rude.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Martin. How thoughtless of me. Of course you’re hungry. It’s past seven o’clock. A little overtime money, eh? Well, I’d better get to the point, eh? Right choo are. Here’s what I’d like you to do. Could you kind of keep an eye on Randy? See if you can spot any funny business going on with Randy and our customers? Just between you and me?”
On the streetcar going home, my stomach is growling, my arms are aching from lifting cases.
And I’m thinking over and over again.
How am I supposed to spy on a guy who’s blackmailing me?