In the Clear Read Free

plowing his boss over at the entrance.
    “Hey, Gerald.” He made a quick check at the clock before rolling down the window. Ten minutes early, as usual—his commute was as well-timed as the rest of his morning. “What’s going on?”
    “You are in some kind of trouble, Mr. Owens.”
    Gerald, who looked a lot more like a kindly grandfather than the tight-fisted employer he actually was, made a motion for him to park the car. Fletcher complied, but slowly, taking his time pulling into his customary slot near the back. The extra seconds were helpful in schooling his exterior into a semblance of calm.
    He was good at that, at making himself look as if nothing affected him. When you grew up several awkward feet ahead of everyone else and your best friend was the only gay kid in class, you learned coping skills. Some kids found humor. Others got mean. Fletcher simply turned inward.
    Gerald waited for him at the end of his car, looking with a frown at the rusty bumper of the outdated Ford. A rolled-up piece of paper rested in one of his hands; the other held a knife which he used to scratch liberally at his mustache.
    “You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you?” Gerald lifted the knife and gestured over Fletcher’s body with it. In any other man, the action might be taken as a threat, but the robust hunting apparatus was almost an extension of his boss. He kept it clipped to his belt at all times and pulled it out whenever he could—cutting up a cupcake in his lunch, ripping open bills, pointing out sights in the distance. It was a wonder he didn’t accidentally kill anyone with it. “Is there anything you care to share with me?”
    Not really. Fletcher’s personal and professional lives were carefully compartmentalized for a reason. He didn’t like things touching.
    “Was something wrong with the shipment we got from the impound lot?” He took a guess, figuring anything was better than letting Gerald build up more steam. “Because the woman I talked to said . . . ”
    Gerald tossed his knife, catching it overhand in his fist as if he wanted to slash Fletcher’s chest open. “How do you think it makes me feel, sitting on an untapped gold mine like this?”
    Fletcher backed away from the knife’s edge. “Um . . . not at all like you want to murder me?”
    Realizing he was hunched for attack, Gerald laughed and slipped the weapon into its belt holster. With a hearty slap on Fletcher’s back, he nudged him in the direction of the lot. Their feet crunched on the five new inches of snow as they walked, and Fletcher knew without question that he’d be the one tasked with shoveling the sidewalks this morning. Which wasn’t so bad, truth be told. Mindless repetition was preferable to cornering unsuspecting couples browsing through minivans.
    “You remember when Ben came home from Afghanistan, don’t you?” Gerald’s heavy hand remained on Fletcher’s shoulder. “How I put him out front in his uniform? Five cars he sold that first morning, and I don’t need to tell you how his sales figures have looked since then.”
    “He seems to do well,” Fletcher said when it was clear some sort of response was required of him.
    “That’s because people love a hero. Heroes are comforting. They allow us regular folk a way to touch greatness.” Gerald turned one squinty eye his way. “You get what I’m saying, Owens?”
    “People love heroes.”
    “Absolutely they do!” Gerald paused to look up at the car lot sign, which featured a twenty-foot blow-up version of himself waving to the street. The mud that inevitably kicked up off the wintery December streets rendered his larger self splotchy and dingy, but that didn’t seem to mar his admiration. “And even more to the point, they like buying cars from heroes. What feels safer than driving home with a car signed and sealed by one of Spokane’s finest?” It was a rhetorical question. “Nothing, I tell you. Not a thing.”
    Fletcher stopped. The way Gerald