CHAPTER 38
The Beaufort Street Army/Navy store was buzzing with activity as Jerry Stedwell clocked in and took off his jacket. He had been drinking that morning and knew he reeked of beer, but half the guys that worked here knocked back a few before coming into work. A car wash was next door and a lot of the guys worked part-time at both places. Jerry had gone there and a few of them went out back and downed a twelve pack before going back in.
“That was a long break,” his manager, and father, Dick Stedwell said as he came into the break room.
“Just went and got somethin’ to eat.”
“Well get your ass out there. Doug’s the only one on the registers.”
Jerry nodded and walked past him, holding his breath. He made it as far as the floor before his dad grabbed him and whispered in his ear, “And if I catch you drinkin’ on the job again you’re out on your ass. Son or no son. Got me?”
“Yeah.”
Jerry went out behind the counter near the firearms display and asked a few people if they needed help finding anything. He showed them some pieces, nothing fancy as most people nowadays were on a budget, and then went and sat on a stool.
It was mistake working here. He had realized that the day he started. But his dad paid him sixteen bucks an hour and he took all holidays off. There were no other jobs he could get as a high school dropout that would pay him that much without him having to risk his life.
He burped, the stale taste of flat beer coming up, and saw a man walk into the store. He was slim but somewhat muscular and wore a silk scarf wrapped around his neck. His bald head looked like someone had taken a blow torch to it and his face was bright red. The man walked over, a big smile on his face.
“Can I help you find somethin’?” Jerry asked.
“Yes. I’m looking for some equipment and my research told me you may have what I’m looking for.”
“What’d you need?”
“I work with flammable materials in high-level temperature environments.”
“Yeah, I can see the burns, man. You gotta be more careful.”
“That’s why I’m here. I need flame resistant clothing.”
“What kinda temperatures we talkin’ about?”
“Over a thousand degrees.”
Jerry whistled. “Man, only people that come in here for that are military guys. You in the military?”
“Something like that.”
“Oh, I get it. Can’t talk about it. Yeah, a lotta special forces guys come in here and buy stuff and can’t really say nothin’. It’s cool. Well, lemme show you what we’ve got.” Jerry walked around the counter and nearly to the back of the store, the man following quietly behind him. They turned a corner and went past oxygen tanks and climbing gear before getting to the fire resistant suits. “How long you looking to spend in the suit at a time?”
“No more than an hour, probably a lot less.”
“Well then what you need are flat lock drop shoulder seams. They’ll get rid of your skin rubbing against the suit and you won’t chafe as easy. And if you’re gonna spend that long in ‘em, you’ll want something anti-microbial too. The inside of the suits can get nasty quick and you can’t wash ‘em. Do you care about high visibility?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lotta workplaces require high-visibility suits so companies make ‘em silver or yellow. But the black is cheaper ‘cause not too many people get ‘em.”
“Black, please.”
“With temperatures that high, you’ll definitely want somethin’ arc-rated. I think I know what you need.”
They walked a little farther down the aisle and hanging up was a long black suit that covered the body from head to toe. It had extra padding over the palms and soles of the feet.
“This here,” Jerry said, “this is top a the line stuff. Like I said before, military stuff. It’s got this cool mesh layering so you got four layers but it don’t feel like you’re wearing four layers. It’s self-extinguishin’ so it’ll never melt or burn. It’s really good stuff too ‘cause it’s had three treatments before it even leaves the factory. This bad boy here, you could walk on the sun with it.”
“I’ll take that.”
“It’s two grand, though.”
“That’s fine.”
“So what do you do for your oxygen?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“You can’t go into high temps without oxygen, man. You’re crazy. We got some good masks and tanks right over here. They’ll protect your face up to the temps you’re lookin’ at.”
“I’ll take those too.”
“Cool. Anythin’ else?”
“No, that’ll be fine.”
Jerry gathered all the equipment and headed out to the front. He rang everything up: $2,723.17. The man paid on a credit card and when Jerry asked him for ID he showed an out-of-state driver’s license. Jerry packed everything and handed it to the man.
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, you got any problems you can call here any time and talk to my dad. He was a fireman. That’s why we got all this shit.”
“Thank you, I probably will do that.”
Jerry watched the man leave the store and turned to another customer. What a nice guy, he thought. He wished all his customers were like that.
CHAPTER 39
Stanton stood outside the two-way mirror and watched the sketch artist work with Tabitha Richardson. He particularly watched the way she interacted and answered questions-with an air as if she was doing him a favor just by being in his presence. She was beautiful by conventional standards with bright green eyes and golden hair and her beauty would get her far in life, or it would destroy her. Stanton had rarely seen beautiful women who were mediocre. They would enter modeling or gymnastics or other sports and then marry well, or if they happened to have intellectual power as well, they would enter business, law, medicine or other professional fields, their looks bolstering their resume.
That was one path.
The other was one of early molestations and later abusive relationships laden with heavy drug use. Many times the two would be intertwined, with high-profile models that seemed to have their lives and careers in order who would buy cocaine cut with baby laxative on street corners or marry the most abusive husbands they could find. They would become porn stars and strippers and prostitutes. When their beauty faded away, they would be left with an empty shell of what had once been a life. Stanton saw many of them, in their fifties and sixties, still on street corners trying to coax johns into letting them in their cars.
Stanton thought how interesting it would be to conduct research on the effects of beauty in life. If ever he were to return to academia, he would have to keep that subject in mind.
Detective “Slim Jim” MacAfee strolled up next to him, a microwaved burrito in his mouth. He stood there, chewing for a moment, the sauce and cheese dripping down his chin onto the floor.
“Who’s that?” he said.
“That’s the sole witness on your arson case, the Humbolts.”
“Benny said the evidence is inconclusive on that.”
“You believe him?”
“No. The fucker’s lazy. I didn’t read about a witness in the reports.”
“She wasn’t in them.”
“How’d you find her?”
“I don’t know. I just thought she knew more than she was telling me.”
If Slim Jim didn’t believe that answer, he didn’t show it. He continued biting into his burrito and sucked down a Sprite. Before he was done with it, the sketch artist gave a thumbs up and stepped out of the room.
“Girl’s got a good memory. Saw this guy for no more than ten seconds at night but could recall the shape of his lips.”
“Did you get a good print?”
“See for yourself.”