Previous chapter: The Last 3 Days (01): What do I tell Washington? All published chapters can be found here. 63:14:12 The one architectural feature Southview Cadillac’s owner insisted on in the design of his dealership was that the facade facing the busy street be floor-to-ceiling glass. The transparent curtain wall would be its own glittering advertisement seen by thousands of drivers every day. Several models from Cadillac’s stable featured in the showroom, posed with their best side facing the window wall, but pride of place went to a tricked out Escalade. The list of luxury electric aids in this display model was obscene. No less than three hundred pounds of electric motors and servos, wiring and buttons to operate them. Each plush, leather covered seat had servos to lift, recline, heat, cool and massage whoever sat in it. Yet, Cadillac would not have engineered such servo-driven excess if the company wasn’t sure there was a market for it. Who wouldn’t wish to own a vehicle of such intimidating stature and excess? Just such a future customer sat in the Escalade’s pilot seat, sunglasses in place to complete the look as he systematically pushed every button, tested the limits of every servo and pretended the giant vehicle was his. Ryan Bellows was chiselled, all-American handsome and just entering his twenties. Once the starting quarterback for the Richmond Park High School Tigers football squad, his coach said he was good enough to go all the way to the NFL. Coach made good on his praise with words whispered in the right ears and Ryan went on to a football scholarship at State University, his ticket to the pros. It all went up in smoke when, in a game critical for the playoffs, a teammate curled the wrong way on his route and collided with Ryan, knocking them both to the ground and burying the season. A lesson needed teaching. Ryan recruited some others and they ambushed the kid, crippling his leg, jaw and skull. A police investigation was met with stubborn, silent loyalty. The school administration used their own discreet methods and soon learned who was responsible. They kept the case away from the police for the sake of their own reputation, but Ryan was forced to relinquish his scholarship and drop out. Even his best friends, his former high school offensive line, knew Ryan had changed as a result of losing his dream. What before had been confidence and tactical talent was now simmering resentment that regularly exploded into violence when he drank. Now, his tactics focussed on taking what he could from anyone he could extort. His friends stayed because they were terrified to leave him. As Ryan imagined the Escalade being his, he toyed with the key in the ignition and dreamed of driving it through all that glass. If he were a king, he would drive this. The door opened and a salesman with a worn smile and wearing an even more worn Southview blazer a size too small balanced a set of car keys on a sheaf of printed forms. “The ultimate SUV,” the man said, his pride at having the opportunity to work at Southview Cadillac sounding possessive. “Fully loaded and fit for a king.” He jingled the keys he’d brought. “Shall we?” The phrase echoed in Ryan’s head, making him hesitate. Fit for a king. Yeah. He wanted to be king. He would be a king, and today was his first step. The salesman jingled the keys again, drawing Ryan from his reverie, and he climbed back down to earth. As he followed the salesman into a small and unkempt but well-appointed office, Ryan pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Escalade. “You know the keys are in the ignition. Aren’t you worried about someone stealing it?” Chuckling, the salesman turned to Ryan and indicated several points in the ceiling. “Let them try,” he said. “Police response is under five minutes from the alarm. And, we can track the vehicle’s GPS.” The two men sat opposite each other at a cherrywood desk, the exquisite grain of the matched panels dulled and dimpled from lack of the most basic maintenance. As he sorted the papers into five separate piles, the salesman made small talk to keep his customer focussed on their purchase. “You’re pretty young to own a Caddy. Wanna share your secret?” Ryan shrugged. “I’m getting a big promotion today. And a big raise. My boss likes me and hands out regular bonuses.” The salesman heard Ryan’s answer and didn’t. He was so close now, and he needed this sale to cover the rent of his bachelor suite above a laundry more popular for drug deals and blow jobs than washing clothes. Sliding both the keys and papers in front of Ryan, he said, “Almost done. A few signatures and you’ll be on your way.” Ryan sat back in his chair. “I changed my mind.” The Salesman froze, peering at Ryan as he fought a rising panic attack. “What’s wrong? Did I mention the rim upgrade?” “I want another five hundred off. The rim upgrade sounds good, too.” The salesman’s breathing was quick and shallow. Sweat condensed on his brow, “I can’t — “ Ryan slowly stood, as if forced to leave to avoid an unscrupulous deal. The salesman flapped his hands, his gesture to get Ryan to sit coming off like a bird failing to fly. “Sit. Please. I’ll speak to my manager.” 63:03:49 Richmond Park High School’s well-equipped shop classroom was Nick Burns’ favourite place in the school, shop class the highlight of his day. He straightened from the lawn mower engine he had nearly finished assembling and replaced the wrench in its slot in the cart’s drawer. The teacher demonstrated something to a student on the far side of the classroom so Nick took the opportunity to compare how he stacked up against his classmates. One student in particular caught his attention. Becky Popoff, the lone girl in the class, seemed to be losing her battle with her engine parts and lagged far behind her peers. The simple fact of her taking this class captured Nick’s heart, but her perseverance and determination to succeed enslaved it. Nick was in love. And he could do nothing about it. He couldn’t ask her out, because even if she agreed, he didn’t have enough money to take her to dinner or a movie. Nick didn’t have a job; he desperately wanted one, but his parents needed someone to walk his younger brother, Jack, to and from school. Nick often watched Jack, when his father’s police shift and his mother’s hospital shift aligned to keep them both away from home. Nick had no problem looking after his brother but he earned less than minimum wage, and then his father kept back half of that pittance for Nick’s ‘college fund.’ Nick didn’t even want to go to college, but his father wouldn’t hear about his becoming a mechanic. Nick was three days away from turning eighteen and he had nothing. He hated his life. Nick was happiest with grease under his fingernails and an engine needing his care. The other parts of a car were cool, too, but engines were almost an aphrodisiac for him. He found new levels of focus in himself, able to visualize any engine in his mind’s eye like a 3D model showing where each piece fit. Lost in his misery and longing, he forgot where he was. Nearby, Becky’s frustration reached a snapping point. She straightened and tossed a part onto the pile of others on her cart. Turning to gaze out the window and calm down, she caught Nick’s reflection in the glass. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice, but when she bent over the jumble of parts on her cart once again, her lips twitched upwards in a smile. 62:51:33 The Thurro Cleaning Company’s lobby was spotless and spartan, as it had been from the day Grandfather Thurro opened for business. That day might never have arrived had Grandfather, then a janitor, not been sent by his employer to collect a late shipment of chemicals from a warehouse by the docks. As Grandfather Thurro guided his employer’s horse drawn wagon among the stevedores and their cargoes, all he wanted was not to fail, and he spared no thought for a different life. Returning with the wagon loaded with the complete inventory of crates and casks, Thurro discovered his employer deceased. Grandfather Thurro’s honesty prompted him to alert the police, who summoned the company’s accountant, who performed his own inventory of the goods. Before the count was done, the first customer arrived, looking for his cleaning supplies. The accountant asked Thurro to mix the customer’s order. When Thurro replied he didn’t know how, the accountant handed over the employer’s leather covered ledger of secret formulas. The accountant was impressed at the speed with which the janitor returned with the proper count of finished products and the ledger. The accountant determined to repay Thurro’s honesty and integrity. He pushed an envelope of bonus money into Thurro’s hands and wished him well. Thurro was an honest man, but not such a fool as to turn away from serendipitous opportunity. A copy of the formulae, as well as the contents of other pages, were nestled in the lining of his suitcase. Those other pages listed the names and addresses of his employer’s suppliers and the price of each chemical. Armed with his copied ledger and the bonus money, he moved West and opened for business. Grandfather Thurro’s portrait hung on a wall in the foyer opposite his son’s portrait, his enigmatic smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s. The room lacked even one guest chair and was dominated by the old man’s first desk, now a corporate heirloom. Behind this imposing desk sat a gatekeeper in the form of an impeccably postured woman with a gaze sharp as a razor. Her name was Louise and this was the only job she had ever held. She had been seventeen when Grandfather Thurro hired her and would soon be seventy-two. Louise held up a single finger and the cluster of five women and one young man in a one-piece overall with the Thurro logo not only went quiet, they stopped moving. Louise picked her phone from its cradle. “Good afternoon. There’s no cleaning like a Thurro cleaning. How may we help you?” She listened for a moment. “Of course. Hold, please.” She tapped a button and lowered the handset. Returning her attention to the group before her, the young man, Jay Taylor, spoke for them all. “Hi, Louise, Is Mr. Thurro free?” “Hello, Ladies. Hi, Jay. Talked to your mom yet?” The ladies returned Louise’s greeting. Every one of the five had survived at least four decades of life elsewhere than America. One of them was Olga Popoff, Becky’s mother. “No,” Jay answered. “You should,” lectured Louise. “It’s been long enough. You need each other. Go on in.” She seemed to notice her phone was flashing. As Jay and the women moved into the corridor behind her desk, she raised her handset once again. “Good afternoon. There’s no cleaning like a Thurro cleaning. How may we help you?” The corridor was punctuated by wooden doors with frosted glass panels. Jay knocked on the last one and opened it. The women followed him. The office of Peter Thurro, the third Thurro to helm the business, was a chaos of piled papers held in place by random janitorial supplier samples, a complete contrast to the lobby. Peter sat at his desk toying with an antique marble desk lighter. “Is what Jay says true? You all pay?” After asking his question, he met the eyes of each woman in turn. Every one nodded. “They pay or they lose their jobs,” Jay said. “These are single mothers and immigrants. What choice do they have?” The lighter hit the desk with the authority of a gavel. “Well, it stops now. Leave this with me.” Jay moved aside to let the women leave first. “Hold on a sec, Jay, please.” Also published here.

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