Читать книгу Baby Bones - Donan Ph.D. Berg - Страница 5

“I say strike now,” shouted Bill McNamar, a wiry, large featured man with full-bodied lips that stretched wide to adorn a tanned face beneath dyed black swept-back hair. A supporting chorus of you-tell’ems and whoops echoed unabsorbed by union hall textured ceiling tile.

President Dino Vikolas had summoned members of Amalgamated Warehouse Workers Independent Local No. 1 to a rare midweek meeting. Four days previous, the union vote authorized its executive committee to call a strike. All meeting long Noel sat quiet as a church mouse in a middle row, elbows tucked in, and head tilted to avoid recognition and Dino’s gaze. Even if Dino didn’t know, Noel endured the piercing shame of an imagined wearing of Judas’s cloak.

With metal clinks and feet shuffling, union members rose in mass from folding chairs to overfill the hall with repetitive chants: “Strike, strike, strike.” From the corner of his left eye, Noel caught sight of a slender, gaunt figure striding along the far wall to stop in front of Vikolas. The rambunctious members choked voices in mid-chant. The familiar graying pigtail rubber-banded above shoulder blades swung sideways as the man pivoted to face Noel and fellow union members.

“We’ve been at the table for three months now. For what?”

“Nothing,” called out a voice behind Noel.

Noel didn’t hear a folding chair creak or scrape the floor.

“That’s right,” McNamar said, joining pig-tailed Bob Hunter at the front and waving off a baton-sized wireless microphone. “Company takebacks in health insurance, increased back-breaking productivity standards worthy of slaves, and for a few of us with double-decade seniority, a lousy twenty-five cents an hour increase.”

An approving murmur swept past Noel.

“You can’t feed a family with a quarter. Voted Sunday we strike. Today, I say let’s do it.”

Repeated chants of strike, strike, strike reverberated from the hall’s ceiling and walls encouraged by uplifted hand waves by both men. Noel never heard either Bill or Bob so enraged. Before today, Bob spoke of caution and patience, not radical strike action. Bob’s cracking voice parroted the smoldering anger Noel overheard before the meeting from smokers lined up outside the entrance cursing and berating Dino’s inaction. At the podium, Noel’s friend, Union President Vikolas, appointed the union’s chief negotiator, twice raised backhand to wipe a furrowed brow. Noel dismissed lunchroom rumblings of a fomenting covert drive to unseat Dino. Three years ago after a university scholarship denial, Dino helped Noel obtain the present warehouse job.

“Guys, guys, calm down,” Dino urged. “We’ll get nowhere shouting. I’m as fed up with the company as you all are. Un-channeled emotion only hurts us.”

McNamar turned on his heel to stare down Dino. “Like hell.” His retort darted through the silence aimed at Dino’s head. “Hell, you’ve been saying that for months. Be a leader; be a man. We won’t get anything unless we strike.”

Renewed strike chants invaded Noel’s ears, faded like mountain echoes. He heard a louder McNamar. “Strike’s all that management understands, responds to.”

A voice behind Noel yelled, “You tell’em, Bill.”

McNamar flashed thumbs up on a raised, extended right hand. “They think.” McNamar gulped; hairy backhand wiped a turned-head mouth. “They think they can wait us out, appeal to our spouse’s fears. Look at the letter the cowards mailed to our homes?”

McNamar held a white paper sheet high above head and with two hands tore it in half, then in two again. The tossed pieces fluttered to the floor accompanied by strike-strike-strike chants. McNamar’s outstretched palms-down gesturing hands signaled for quiet. “This is a strong union community. Stores can’t exist without food. We’ll follow every damn truck; picket every receiving dock. Isn’t that right, guys?” Upward-turned palms encouraged vocal member response.

A thunderous wave of union member applause rolled back to front. Noel rose after adjacent union members stared. He clapped to support McNamar, sidestepping left to hide behind broad plaid-shirted shoulders that blocked Dino’s direct visual. Dino’s gavel rapped the podium. Members slumped into chairs, Noel faster than most.

After a throat clearing, Dino glared at the standing McNamara. “Bill, even if everyone agreed with you, we still don’t have a member majority present tonight.”

Noel, not well versed in union rules or its constitution, wondered if Dino’s comment overrode the Sunday vote making his words to Melanie a lie. He cringed at how she’d react.

“Doesn’t matter,” McNamar bellowed, chest expanding. “Our rules provide that a present and voting majority determines a strike vote. I read the meeting notice posted an entire week in the warehouse. It clearly stated a strike vote would be on Sunday’s agenda and we voted strike.”

Noel lowered gaze, away from Dino. McNamar sounded confident, rules savvy.

“We can’t go backward.” McNamar faced the members. Rhythmic supportive clapping gained volume until Noel’s hand flesh made contact without emitting sound. McNamar yelled, “I say we set a strike date tonight. Call a vote.”

All sixty in attendance, a fraction of the two hundred and thirty five Jove Foods main warehouse bargaining unit members, stood at McNamar’s urging to shout: “date, date, date.” Noel felt overwhelmed, uncertain. Dino glanced to the four executive committee members seated equally to his left and right. Noel exhaled when Dino’s twice rapped gavel restored quiet.

“The executive committee will caucus in my office. Hang loose a few minutes.”

McNamar prevented Noel’s chair-row escape. “We can count on you, right?” Steel-gray narrowed eyes surrounded by leathery brown skin bore into Noel.

“Yeah.” Noel gazed at the floor, brain-calming desire to flee.

“Good.” McNamar advanced man-to-man in adjacent row asking the same question of all.

Noel didn’t fathom what he’d gotten himself into. He needed this job to build university tuition savings. If daily living expenses siphoned off the $1,500 balance, a cherished dream of teaching high school drama further postponed. Dino said he’d be eligible for sixty-five dollar strike benefit if performing picket duty, which left weekly three hundred and thirty five dollar shortfall.

Noel pressed the meeting room’s wall-mounted water fountain button. He believed Dino and the executive committee delayed an exceptionally long time to agree on a strike date. The water spray splashed bent forward left cheek before he gulped a cool mouthful.

A hush descended like a flapped tablecloth floating to cover a restaurant table. He turned. The executive committee filed in to retake their seats. Dino, with gavel raised, stood at the table’s podium. Noel, from the fountain, stared, and strained to listen as Dino began.

“The executive committee agreed to a final negotiation session tomorrow night.” Boos drowned out his next words. Dino raised the gavel. “If no tentative agreement, we strike Monday.”

Claps and chants flooded the room. “Strike Monday ... strike Monday ... strike Monday.”

McNamar hustled front and center with flapping hands signaling for quiet.

“There’s a picket line schedule on the table,” Dino called out. “Volunteer before you leave.”

Noel, elbowed forward, wrote name under sheet column for Monday morning picket duty.

* * *

Jonas, at sister’s kitchen table, allowed fresh-brewed coffee to tickle throat as he rubbed drowsy eyes. He appreciated slow-moving mornings giving him grateful pause for his sister’s two years of hospitality; temporary, he kidded himself, when first he agreed. A town sheriff image and stronger grip on Kanosh’s pulse rated higher then living at parent’s farm twenty miles out.

Sister Luann and brother-in-law Robbie had purchased the Kanosh house four years ago when Robbie, at age forty, retired after twenty years in the U. S. Army. He hiked and boated a time or two with Robbie, her second Army husband. Luann’s twelve-year-old son, Ethan, lived with father and first husband, Ken, since age eight. Jonas didn’t understand how a parent could give up a biological child, but he’d never been divorced or paced a hospital corridor as an expectant dad.

Bored by civilian life, Robbie changed inactive Army Reserve status to active. Jonas listened to the upstairs master bedroom shower water drain through a kitchen wall pipe. He assumed Luann had returned from daily early morning neighborhood jog. Clogs thudded on wooden stair treads.

“You’re up early,” Luann said, feet planted in the kitchen doorway. Below wet black hair peeking out from scarf, a carnation flowered silk robe touched the floor. “Big day?”

“Biggest thing planned is a truck oil change.” Jonas stirred and sipped the half-mug of lukewarm instant coffee. Luann would brew favored peppermint herbal tea.

“Thought you planned to trade in that clunker after all those campaign miles driven.”

“Consider it a good luck charm.” He winked. An Elmer Fudd decaled mug clinked a saucer.

She opened kitchen cabinet. “Where’s Webster? He didn’t wake me scratching the door.”

While Luann often complained about Webster, he perceived she’d grown closer to him in the four months since Robbie’s called up reserve unit departed for Iraq duty. Luann cried on Jonas’s shoulder beneath his stoic expression when Robbie boarded the bus bound for the Omaha military departure flight to Germany. Jonas muttered cliché he’d say a prayer, the best emotional response he could muster. Luann’s love gave Jonas more than he repaid.

“Darned if I know.” Jonas rose, unlocked the kitchen door to the backyard cedar deck. “Here, Webster. C’mon boy.” No bark. He waited. No fluttering tail. No galloping Webster.

“Shouldn’t you bribe him?” Luann asked, using red scarf to pat dry short black hair. The half-inch faded scar below right ear had been there since he, as a teenager, pushed her out of a cottonwood tree. Unlike her, he remained self-conscious of a left arm’s jagged scar.

“I’ve got pork rib.” Luann, from the fridge, handed Jonas a wrinkled aluminum foil package.

He ripped off the foil. “This’ll bring him. Brace yourself for the stampede?” Jonas doubled a wink. He held the kitchen door open as an extended right foot placement creaked a deck plank.

“Here, Webster. Treat time.” He waved the pork bone in front of forehead. By himself, Jonas backed into the kitchen letting the door slam. Front teeth nipped a sliver of pork meat.

“So where’s that mutt of yours?” Luann microwaved a mug with tea bag. Toast popped.

“Don’t know.” Jonas slumped into a chair. “Did you leave the fence gate open?”

“Heavens no.” Luann frowned. “You musta done something?”

“Had to reprimand him Monday at Jove Foods after he snapped.” He hadn’t previously told Luann. “But Webster’s never exhibited a long memory when food’s available.”

“Dogs can pout like slighted relatives or spoiled children.”

“Yeah.” Jonas bent forward to unloosen and retie scuffed Red Wing boots. On the deck, hand on rail, he called out, “Webster, Webster, here boy.” He extended right hand with the pork rib.

Shout startled two sparrows into flight. No Webster coaxed into sight. Jonas stepped down three risers, and jogged to the right to check the gate. Locked. He waved the pork rib to waft its aroma on the freshening yard breeze. Still nothing. Jonas began to walk the inside fence perimeter. Behind a blue-spire juniper at the far corner, Jonas spied a furry tail sticking out. He cried out, “C’mon, Webster. Game’s over. I see you.”

With creased boot fronts, he tiptoed forward, cupped both hands next to mouth, “Webster.”

The tail, laid across dog’s hind leg, didn’t wag. An expanded adam’s apple restricted Jonas’s swallowing. A prickly feeling crawled spider-like across forehead. He hadn’t taught the dog to play dead. Left hand touched fur and skin. Fingers jerked away.

Cold. A second longer pressing touch like ungloved fingers picking up ice cubes.

Luann shouted, “What’s happening?” Her airborne words from the deck hung unanswered.

From a squat, Jonas dropped to both knees. Grief welled within heart chambers. While his mind prayed for a miracle, hand pressed to Webster’s side relayed no underlying heartbeat or breathing upheaval. Jonas coughed to clear throat of clogging fear creeping from queasy stomach.

“Found Webster.” Jonas’s weak voice cracked, “Not good.” Not good at all.

“Should I call someone?” Luann asked. Right hand caught gown’s fluttering silk skirt.

“No.” Jonas’s fingers flattened the fur between Webster’s ears. He rubbed and stroked his dog’s back. No sound or response movement did Jonas expect, see, hear, or feel. Webster’s body stiffness dashed all hope flickers any rescue attempt would restore life. He slid bare forearms under Webster, lifted, carried, and laid his faithful K-9 buddy gently on the deck. Jonas sat numb on the second step to wipe lingering morning dewdrops clinging to the hairs on the back of both hands. Other than for parents’ barnyard collie, he’d never internalized or cared deeply about any animal since age fourteen when a stray greyhound he tried to feed severely gnashed left forearm. The resulting scar a reminder to steer clear of all four-legged creatures. That is, until Webster.

“I’m so sorry,” Luann said. She bent forward; her hand touched Jonas’s shoulder. “What’ll you do?” Standing, lips trembling, she stared at him. “What happened?”

“Don’t know. Could’ve been natural. There’s no wound or blood.”

“Wait here.” Luann returned with an old olive-colored woolen blanket. “Wrap Webster in this.” She spread the blanket on the deck. “Let me heat the skillet for blueberry pancakes.”

“Can’t eat, not now.” Jonas rose to lift Webster onto the blanket. “I’m going to the vet.” He folded the blanket ends in. “If he’s not open, I’ll wait.”

Jonas waited three hours before the office opened and the vet could see him. A veterinarian assistant led Jonas, carrying Webster, to a cubbyhole-sized sterile exam room. After somber assistant verified non-existent pulse, Jonas gently laid patrol buddy on a stainless steel table and returned to reception. He thumbed through an endless magazine stack or voiced one-word sentences with gray-haired Stella Pritchard, mother’s church friend. Fingertips rubbed and re-rubbed day-old beard stubble. At eleven thirty, the assistant asked him to follow her.

The seated vet’s forefinger pushed brown-framed eyeglasses off elongated nose, a folder spread before him on a small green metal desk. His starched white coat, although dotted in brown stains, added no color to mottled parchment-colored complexion. The vet requested Jonas be seated as the assistant left.

Sunlight filtered through a glass block window. “Well?” Jonas asked, throat dry.

“Webster was poisoned.” The words bolted from a shadowy face between sunrays.

“What?” Jonas’s stomach absorbed the striking punch of a Hoover ball. “Can’t be.”

The vet explained blood samples would be sent to the lab to confirm what he deduced. Webster’s skin, said the vet, showed no external wounds nor parasite body invasion. Small rear throat redness and emerging blisters indicated ingestion of an undetermined caustic substance. Office records, he continued, showed Webster vaccinated and in robust health. This medical history coupled with the observed mouth symptoms signaled acute poisoning.

Jaw-tightened, Jonas sprang up; kicked the visitor chair leg. Within the vet office confines, Jonas let fly a string of profanities. The vet suggested Jonas sit quiet for a few minutes. He did.

Leaving the vet’s office, Jonas didn’t feel like beginning Thursday’s routine. He craved a Rainbow Cafe milk shake. He fended off the two stares his unkempt counter appearance invited with staccato outbursts of having a long night. He paid Sally, the owner, and walked south to Reggie’s Grocery. Ushering Reggie by the elbow into the rear store office, he asked if any customer purchased an extra large piece of steak within the last forty-eight hours. Reggie said nay.

How about Melanie Stark in the last week? Reggie shook head no, and then volunteered that Sgt. Paul Anderson, store’s biggest steak purchaser, hadn’t been in since Saturday. Jonas realized his impulse sought the impossible but asked Reggie to check available store sales records. Then Jonas stepped outside Reggie’s and fulfilled promise to update Luann by cell phone. She suggested he offer a reward. He said he’d consider although thinking it something silly for a sheriff to do.

In the few minutes needed to reach sister’s house and exchange personal F-150 for a Sheriff’s Plymouth cruiser, Jonas scratched but the surface of numerous fond Webster memories. Inside the empty house, Jonas shook off the willies Webster’s absence gave him. He let kitchen door screen slam to search the backyard fence perimeter, both inside the yard and out. Jonas observed no suspicious footprints near the fence, not surprising for all neighbors mowed grass lawns. Easy backyard access obtained from three directions.

Then it dawned on him, the complaints Mrs. Longstreet leveled against others could spark retaliation against her Boston terrier and recently built board-on-board fence. Perhaps a perp’s mistake and the wrong house targeted. While mind tried to unravel motives, he knocked on Mrs. Longstreet’s front door without an answer. Another possibility? Webster snapped at Melanie Stark. Farfetched. She’d been unhurt and forgiving in addition to saying she housed a cat. Poisoning a dog wasn’t a pet lover’s act. He strode to Luann’s thinking Melanie’s office demeanor didn’t indicate she plotted revenge. Just the opposite. She’d encouraged him to attend a weekend fund-raiser she’d be at. He’d arrested spiteful persons in short sheriff tenure and before that as a sergeant. All could be prime suspects harboring and plotting revenge. Office files could refresh memory with names.

While spreading the backyard juniper branches, his mind wandered as to how. Seemed simple. A cowardly bastard interlaced meat with readily available hardware store poison. Any large dog would’ve gulped it down, yet a far-ranging search ended with no poison container found.

At his office desk, a detailed review of jailed individuals produced no solid prospect. In the last two years he’d detained six persons overnight. The most likely candidate remained in prison for robbery. Jonas discounted three men jailed for drunk and disorderly. The last two were domestic assaults. A woman assailant relocated. As to the second arrested, Jonas’s computer search failed to spit out the man’s current address or hint at current whereabouts.

He didn’t seriously believe Webster’s poisoning ranked as a juvenile prank, although he’d keep ears open to see if town gossip indicated a dare.

* * *

Thursday morning at Jove Foods headquarters, VP Stark sorted out unconfirmed circulating rumors about the union executive committee’s special membership meeting. Her impromptu forklift jaunt through fluorescent-lit warehouse foodstuff aisles proved unsuccessful in locating Noel. She nodded in response to rank-and-file worker stares. A brief chat with the foreman she handed the forklift key to still left union-strike-date rumors unconfirmed.

She’d seen known nonunion employees gathered apart from union adherents. Dino, not scheduled to work, tipped a coffee mug to waiting lips in the break room when she passed by. She assumed, based on supervisor’s piecemeal reports of overheard employee hushed conversations, she’d better accelerate HR strike plan implementation. As she walked tiled headquarter corridors, the downcast office employee eyes presented conduct she interpreted as a harbinger of an impending strike. The office workers, a separate bargaining unit affiliated with warehouse Amalgamated Union Local No. 1, would, coerced or willingly, honor the warehouse employees’ picket line.

At nine thirty a.m., Melanie joined President Chesterton and five Jove Foods executives assembled in the walnut-paneled first floor conference room to update strike strategy. Melanie kept well versed in industry watcher’s accounts of Chesterton’s activities and reputation. While he lost prior job for being explosive and temperamental, he’d acted attentive and soft-spoken during her initial official job interview. After noting two lustful bosom gazes, she employed intentional hand gestures in front of uplifted chest to accentuate answers and exploit his ravenous eyes.

Later, she surrendered her all to obtain a vice presidency.

Melanie spoke highly of him to a visiting representative of the out-of-state investor group owning a majority of Jove Foods stock. With gusto the visitor praised Chesterton’s sales successes, not mentioning concern about Chesterton favoring comely females or micro-managing executives. Melanie ingratiated herself into Chesterton’s good graces by parroting his managerial opinions.

Today, she leaned forward, head cocked toward her boss, hands clasped on the room’s conference table. “No small group of employees should threaten the welfare of the company. They can all be replaced. What skill exists driving a forklift or picking product off a warehouse rack that can’t be taught to anyone with basic intelligence and minimal physical dexterity.”

“Melanie,” CFO Vern Stutzel taunted, “are you ready to load a few trucks?”

“After you.” She glared at Vern and glanced at Chesterton sporting a creeping smile.

“You know I am. I may be only five foot, four, and weigh more than Twiggy, but I’ve a forklift operator’s license willing to challenge anyone.”

Melanie scanned the room’s male faces. “Are you first, Vern?”

Stutzel slumped into armed wood chair. How dare he challenge her? Her glare undiminished. He couldn’t operate an office desk chair lever without assistance. She peeked sideways at the admiring smile adorning Chesterton. A face she’d traced with fingertips in dim storeroom light.

When childish air of superiority hit the ceiling, she tried to temper challenge realizing she might need Stutzel’s alliance later. “Tell me when you’re ready. I’ll give free lessons. Your nimble calculator fingers should have little trouble guiding a forklift gear shift.”

Chesterton’s bass voice interrupted her jousting with Stutzel. “Revalidate all your contacts. Begin phase two today.” He gazed at each attendee. “Anything new?” No executive spoke. Chesterton’s two code words announced the meeting’s end. After he flipped bulging day planner closed, he gazed at her. “Melanie, please see me in my office, say eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chesterton shifted gaze to the chief financial officer. “Vern, good cost analysis on outside vendors. We’ll need all of them delivering to stores if the union strikes.”

Melanie watched Sales VP Glenn Dingo shrug as their boss and three others left. Why Chesterton hired the wimp surprised her. Never mind. She’d displayed and offered all-important qualifications at Chesterton’s Campbell Motel job interview. She endured his rocking upper position to be able to exploit a male conquest ego and achieve personal goals at and away from work.

“You didn’t say much, Glenn.” Melanie trusted VP Dingo less than Vern.

“Not much to say. Union strikes. Sales and profits fall.” Dingo haltingly ambled to the conference room door as he rotated body front from her. “We’ll all be toast.”

“Get a grip.”

Dingo departed without a response. Melanie’s thoughts returned to Chesterton. From all outward community appearances, Chesterton and his wife lived happily married with no children that she knew of. Melanie’s mother never enjoyed a happy marriage, bombarding Melanie with habitual, derogatory curses directed toward two specific unnamed men and all men in general. They’re worthless, mother lamented time and time again.

Melanie wouldn’t complain. In life she capitalized on every opportunity to reach employment’s nirvana, out maneuvering male competitors with hidden glee. The San Francisco investor contact hinted at a Chesterton transfer to a larger sister company if he smashed sales goals or fired if profits evaporated. Dingo’s expressed fear a strike would pummel profits wouldn’t hurt her presidency prospects as proposed replacement hire plans, given three month strike, would boost profits with labor costs cut thirty percent. She gazed at Vern. He’d been slow to grab wooden cane.

“All kidding aside, Melanie, do you believe the union will actually strike?”

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t.” Voice exuded prediction confidence. “You’ve read the company’s hardball contract proposals for take-backs. Following strategies to create a nonunion company may bite us.” Conference room ajar-door caution drove voice to a whisper. “Being nonunion, contrary to Jove’s history, seems to be our president’s myopic goal.”

“You sure?” Vern ran a bent finger across a creased pale cheek.

“You betcha. He’s spouted every union busting consultant cliché written in contemporary management magazines. He desires a strike to clean out union workers and to justify hiring lower-waged replacement workers readily available in a recession economy.”

“Between you and me, the upcoming quarterly numbers won’t be rosy ... with or without a strike. To save his own hide he’ll scapegoat and sacrifice one or all of us when all hell breaks loose.”

“Personally, I’m not worried.” Melanie reached behind her back to tug bra strap lower.

* * *

Voices in unison shouted. “Scab. Look at us, scab. We’ll remember.”

Seven Amalgamated Warehouse Workers Independent Local No. 1 strikers banishing picket signs on the strike’s day one yelled at two coworkers suspected to be riding in a white Econoline rental van escorted by three ski-masked security guards past the Jove Foods warehouse gate.

Noel waved a sign while pressing dry lips together. Earlier that day he joined others to boo maintenance workers nailing two-by-four foot signs to posts planted in concrete the prior week. As Dino predicted to Noel, the company reduced four warehouse truck entrances to two. Noel read one sign stating the far gate reserved for unrelated contractors. A second announced the main entrance he stood at restricted to employees and warehouse deliveries.

Before and after the van crossing, no semis passed the union line. Noel counted half-a-dozen big rigs make u-turns at the intersection a block before the warehouse.

Noel, harboring huge doubts this strike represented yellow brick road to utopia, kept quiet so as not to undermine friend Dino. In private, Dino confessed he favored continued negotiations and informational picketing without a strike. He explained to Noel that, although the employer had a legal bargaining obligation, Jove Foods cancelled last scheduled session and dared legal action.

While Noel didn’t understand the behind-the-scenes jockeying, he marched in lockstep with a picket sign hoisted above right shoulder and hoped, even prayed, Dino could forge an early end. As he approached the newly arrived Silver County Sheriff’s car, Noel recognized a deputy’s face.

“Aren’t you glad it’s not raining?” Bonnie asked. Painted dark red fingernails grasped a black baton. An unsnapped holster carried no weapon. Eyes shaded by a wide-brimmed brown hat.

“Yeah, guess so.” He sidestepped out of march line. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Protecting the public peace. Sheriff comes later.” She smiled. He ignored muffled voices mingled with foot stomps behind him at the entrance gate. “How long you going to be out here?”

“Until the company negotiates a reasonable contract.” Noel’s quick retort, tinged with the personal bitterness of expected dried up savings, represented a response orchestrated by Dino.

“I’m sorry,” Bonnie said, scanning the picketers. “I meant you personally.”

“Oh, until ten, and then I volunteered for late afternoon, four to six.” After he spoke, his right hand fingers pushed through hair strands before being wiped on blue-jean pant leg. With a tighter two-hand grip, Noel waved picket sign in response to heckler across the industrial park road who shouted, “Go home.” Pro-union drivers passing picket line honked in support.

“Heard Melanie Stark told a group of businessmen last week that if the union strikes, you can all be replaced. She claimed even she could earn a forklift certification and has.”

“Is that so?” Pocket jingling silver coins reminded Noel of his Judas parallel.

“Yes. A meeting reporter told me and Sheriff McHugh she said driving a forklift or picking product off a warehouse shelf is easily taught to anyone with basic intelligence and physical dexterity.” Bonnie angled face away from the advancing morning sun. “Ms. Stark claimed the company already delivered ready-for-printing recruiting ads to the Kanosh Daily Sentinel.”

“Talk’s cheap.” Noel’s forearm wiped brow to spread perspiration beading from the unexpected early season humidity. “Hope she volunteers to run a forklift for twelve hours, not two minutes for a news photo. If she completes a full shift, bet she won’t be waltzing the next evening.”

Bonnie’s quotation of Melanie’s belittling words ignited a cranial revenge streak. He mentally pictured Melanie crashing a forklift, lifting orange crates only to have them topple the forklift forward, and, the best image, a lurching pallet unleashing toilet tissue rolls to bounce off her bosom. Noel inwardly smiled. Manual work would definitely diminish Melanie’s abdomen baby fat. He spied two picketers crowd closer. “In two days,” Noel suggested, “the mayor will rail against the lack of speeding revenue and you’ll again be behind treed curves pointing a radar gun.”

Bonnie frowned. Marched toward parked squad car, sound buzzing from a shoulder.

Noel plopped into a lawn chair, and noticed the strikers’ settled in boredom after but an hour, which disappeared when an approaching vehicle kicked in strikers’ collective adrenaline. For fifteen seconds at ten a.m., when he handed sign to another, he watched Bonnie, ankles crossed, lounging against the squad car’s front fender. She gazed off in the direction opposite to where his parked van waited. He withheld a wave and exposed back to her in stroll away.

* * *

Inside the Jove Foods three-story headquarters, Melanie, in a darkened top floor storeroom, peered between horizontal metal blind slats cranked to be a quarter-inch from complete closure. She counted parading strikers. Stupid Idiots. Ruin me will you? Melanie repressed mounting anger during the elevator ride to the first floor conference room five minutes prior to President Chesterton’s mandated eight a.m. meeting. Seated, she silently doodled, alone in fantasy world envisioning Princess Diana. A bent forward, seated Chesterton traced projected sales figures contained in a three-ring binder marked confidential. Flattened brows and stretched lips indicated trouble.

Melanie recalled one other experience when he appeared as he did now. It had been late one night as they shared a cocktail after a daylong seminar for store managers. She detected irony when he joked a semi-trailer accident had been the difference in missing a monthly projected sales record. He predicted he alone would survive any investor ordered corporate reorganization. Melanie entertained a brighter personal vision with the investors anointing her chief executive. After all, she could micro-manage better than he. She established great rapport with store managers.

Chesterton lifted head to gaze at Melanie. “I must give you the dubious credit of correctly forecasting that the warehouse workers would strike.” CFO Stutzel nodded.

Sales VP Dingo glared at her. She expected Dingo’s negativity for he abhorred any credit she received, sarcastic or not. Melanie realized Dingo harbored smoldering animosity for her caustic public comments about his blunder in ordering an unpalatable knockoff fruit drink brand. So what, she thought. Store managers in four states griped about unsold cases stacked ceiling-high. She negotiated charity donation by non-union workers. Store managers cheered the wage savings.

“Thank you.” She tipped head with pursed lips forward.

“Now,” Chesterton continued, “until we can train replacement workers, Vern, detail for us the contingency plans for vendor direct-to-store shipping.”

Melanie added doodles to yellow legal pad as Vern droned on. Her contingency plan to hire strike replacement devised two months ago. For the past ten days, an off-site training storefront accepted applications. HR staff busy that morning telephoning those with forklift licenses.

Drawing concentric circles, she wished Noel hadn’t bolted from living room after confirming union’s strike vote. She protected his identity, not to prevent retribution, but to gain further trust. He’d probably been leery of, or scared by, her as a needy older woman. She’d back off next time. His nerves, she recalled, reacted positive to leg touch. They could be good for each other.

After Noel’s departure, undulating fingers stoked body core rising temperature. She gazed at Chesterton with frustrated desires radiating lower torso warmth upward. She lifted unbuttoned blouse collar away from moist skin to welcome ceiling fan breeze. If Noel disappointed, Chesterton would remain as Plan B, both employment and personal. And, the developed strategy for Chesterton surmounted the required three-month picket line duration for non-union replacement wage savings.

* * *

On schedule, perhaps a half hour early, Jonas arrived at the picket line to relieve Bonnie. His desire the six p.m. start of the twelve-hour night shift could be on call scrubbed, however, pulse slowed when Bonnie reported but one picket line scuffle. The three combatants, two strikers, one heckler, dispersed when approached, and she reported no visible blood or injury.

During four drive-bys, Jonas witnessed peaceful picketing and benign company surveillance. He trusted the industrial area visual survey of no delivery truck massing predicted a peaceful night. He locked service .38 into the cruiser’s glove box and wished Bonnie a good evening. From the rear seat he retrieved a thirty-inch baton to stroll past the strikers wide-kneed in webbed lawn chairs. With a polite no, he declined two offers to carry a picket sign. He joked with a cousin, once removed, pivoted, and retreated to cruiser where he powered driver window halfway down. He wiggled into a comfortable front passenger seat position. Foot rocked filled hot coffee thermos. Eyelids closed until head jerked forward when he heard, “Good evening, Sheriff.”

Jonas glanced sideways past cruiser steering wheel to see a hunched Melanie Stark peer into the front seat. Right arm flung passenger door wide; he scurried to the Plymouth’s grill.

“Why you here? You’ll create a firestorm or ignite hostility.”

“Maybe.” She rubbed ungloved hands. “But these guys know that when the strike’s over I’ll still control their lives. They’ll not mess with me, especially when I’m here talking to you.”

“If you say so.” He slanted sideways, left hand on the cruiser’s front fender. She surprised him by wearing blue jeans, running shoes, and a light denim jacket. More so when she strutted close and tapped two fingers on the cruiser’s hood ornament.

“Since you missed the St. Patrick’s Day fund-raiser, you could make it up.”

Jonas glimpsed a slight twinkle in mischievous eyes. “How’s that?”

“I’ll serve you breakfast. What time should I expect you?”

“No time.”

“C’mon. Don’t be stubborn.” She twisted toward the strikers; when turning to him, moist pale lips adorned smile. “Miss a free breakfast, no strings. You holding out for a special feast?”

He jerked frame erect. “Heavens no.” Jonas didn’t want to encourage her.

“Ah. Why not?” She leaned toward him. “It’ll be a pleasure not soon forgotten.”

Jonas didn’t know how to interpret the sultry words, other than a blatant tease. He’d told Luann not to worry about breakfast for he assumed the overnight shift might have him arriving home after she left for her own job. Anyway, he could always pour milk into cereal or microwave Jimmy Dean sausage and coffee or sprawl hungry on bed for necessary sleep. He never fathomed Ms. Stark would try to lure him. If so, she picked the perfect opportunity. No passersby would suspect their conversation to be anything other than strike related. No return office visit that would raise questions or waggle idle tongues. “Blueberry pancakes?” After fifteen-second pause, he decided to up the stakes and join the tease game. “If there’s blueberry pancakes, perhaps maybe.”

“You’ve got ‘em.” She glanced for a second at striker catcalls. “Want sausages?”

He’d been stupid to encourage their banter. Pulse slowed realizing he could always manufacture an excuse later for not showing up. “What time? I’m here ‘til six.”

“I’ll be ready.” Widened pupils flashed road’s open. “You know where I live?”

“Give me the address and I’ll find it. Please don’t expect me to stay long.”

“Let’s say ten after six, 125 North Park.” Ms. Stark broadened smile. “Excuse me. Need to write a note to check for sausages.” She scribbled on a pocket paper scrap.

Jonas’s sideward glance met the long distance gaze of three picketers following Ms. Stark’s every move. “Guess we’ll see if these strikers stay calm and don’t get rambunctious. Or, if the company doesn’t try to push the envelope with truck traffic at six a.m.”

“Now, Sheriff, didn’t I promise the company wouldn’t try to enflame the employees?” She waved toward the strikers. None responded. “The strike will collapse in a week. Boredom and families missing a paycheck support us. With stores well stocked; we won’t need to force the line.”

“You told me, but should I believe you?” He leaned backside on fender.

“Let’s enjoy breakfast. If you expect a trick, I’ll expect a treat.”

Old enough to decipher a hidden sexual come on, he feared responding in kind would be misinterpreted. Happened to him often as a teenager. He’d stay vigilant, and possibly enjoy a quick breakfast. Hours of surveillance time existed until then and anything could happen.

Melanie activated scattered boos, waved as the gate opened, and then crossed the picket line.

At hour intervals, Jonas visited picketers huddled next to a smoky barrel burning split wood. He justified not enforcing a county air quality regulation. The Jove Foods warehouse far corners in eerie shadow, sporadically illuminated by a sauntering rent-a-cop flashlight. High-wattage portable light towers created elongated patrolling guard shadows across the expansive asphalt parking lot.

Near three a.m., up close to twenty hours, Jonas’s eyes blinked heavy. He climbed into cruiser to lay a weary head on front passenger seat headrest. When the sun warmed face with streaming rays penetrating windshield, he realized the nap lasted longer than planned. Half dozen picketers marched single file across the Jove Foods entrance. Shouts or truck horns hadn’t wakened him. Assuming he missed nothing important, right forefinger wiped crustiness from both eyes.

In the rearview mirror he watched Sgt. Paul Anderson approach. Jonas opened the passenger door, but stayed seated.

Paul bent down to stare at Jonas. “Anything I should know?”

“No. Nothing unusual.” Jonas waited until Paul strutted away and became engaged in striker conversation before edging the Plymouth into the street. Groggy from napping, he would’ve driven home until he remembered Melanie’s invitation at the second intersection. Turning toward Park Street, left hand fingers itched a day-old beard. Following house numbers in descending order left him idling in front of 125 North Park.