Nick Flanagan stood behind the orange counter of the little convenience store attached to Fast Eddie’s Fuel. The grainy film of the security camera displayed a slender woman in a short, light-colored skirt, fiddling with her wallet at pump number four. She was the only customer at 2:20 PM, that quiet time between lunch and students being released from school.
Two ragged boys in faded jeans with bags under their eyes sat eating hot chips on the curb outside – Billy and Blaze, two high school teenagers who needed a place to sit while they weren’t at their part-time jobs. Nick had exchanged enough greetings with them to know they were residents of St. Jonah’s, and he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to be at that group foster home.
The tops of their heads – Billy’s neatly combed and Blaze’s tucked beneath a beanie – appeared in the security camera. Nick watched the woman for any signs of discomfort or annoyance. While the boys could hang out here without Nick booting them for loitering, they didn’t have license to make other customers uncomfortable. He’d shouted at the two for catcalling just this past April.
The woman drove away in her coupe with only the normal exhaustion of a patron who worked two or three jobs. Nick returned to waiting. He could clean the store, but his knee was aching, despite the brace hidden beneath his jeans. It would rain today. He was like an old man already, and he wasn’t even ten years out of high school.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the metal chair, glaring at the candy bars, lighters, chew, lottery tickets, and vape pens in cardboard and plastic caddies on the counter.
Like an injured animal, his knee trapped him, ensuring this would be the rest of his life. He remembered the nature documentaries Ted Zalinski had always played on the television on weekends to give the boys of St. Jonah’s “some education when you’re not at school.” So many times a zebra or gazelle had been injured and was unable to flee from the larger predators.
A white car with a black stripe pulled into one of parking spaces nearest the front door. Its officer stepped out. Even on the low-quality security camera, Nick knew that cocky walk with the puffed-out chest. It was a walk common to many police officers, but most police officers hadn’t practiced that walk since junior high.
What was he doing here? Despite living in the same town, Nick hadn’t seen Ian Janowski since senior year. He would have preferred it stay that way.
The bright lights of the little convenience store afforded Nick a better view of his school-age boogeyman, who was still, unfortunately, as athletic as he’d been in high school. His arms looked like he spent a lot of time bench pressing. His button-down shirt didn’t strain at the gut like so many officers’ did. The badge on the dark gray uniform gleamed to display the beehive logo of Anthracite City below the square-jawed face.
Nick’s body shook and he aggressively chugged the Purple Pillager Manergy drink he’d left half-finished beneath the metal folding chair.
Beneath Ian’s arm was a black sign with a thin blue line across it. Against a red eagle silhouette were the white letters reading “Janowski for Sheriff, because the law is the law!” Those same signs, in recent months, had been infesting the small front yards of Anthracite City, since Ian’s old man had decided to run for sheriff.
Ian moseyed – just like those cowboys on the old westerns Ted used to put on the television on Thursday nights – to the counter and set the sign right in front of Nick. Sadly, there was just enough room for it between the lottery ticket display and the vape pen caddy.
“Your boss wants this in a window,” Ian said, his blue eyes not showing a hint of recognition.
Nick rose from the chair to his full 6’7,” a solid four inches taller than Ian. “Yeah? I didn’t hear anything about it.” He tried to pretend it wasn’t Ian, just another person asking to display some kind of advertisement. The security cameras would catch everything; even if they didn’t, even if they malfunctioned, the elder Janowski was the darling of many in Anthracite City. Nick had already learned the Janowskis’ word trumped truth.
“Flanagan?” Ian’s thin lips parted to reveal large, white teeth.
Nick grabbed the tape from beneath the register and set the plastic roll atop the sign. “Hang it where you want.” He didn’t want a conversation with any Janowski, least of all Ian.
“I did not expect to see you here.” Ian studied Nick’s yellow-collared shirt that read “Fast Eddie’s” on the left breast, seemingly forgetting about the campaign sign. Would he notice if Nick shoved the sign in the garbage and burned it? “You were supposed to get a scholarship for basketball. What’re you doing here?”
Nick could guess what Ian was thinking. Ian had been one of the Northeast Regional High’s sports stars, too, but it was Nick who’d been at the top devoted everything he had to athletics, and thus received a scholarship offer. Nick had realized hard work mattered as much as natural ability.
He settled on grumbling a “See you’re still in the area, too.” You cocky piece of garbage. Get the hell out of my store, out of this valley. If I have to look at your damned face…I hate your face. Ian was the one who took Don Anders away, almost took Tschida away. He imagined smashing Ian’s face with his fist before hammering the badge into his skull. It was the least he deserved after his cruel torment and harassment. But that flimsy, ugly badge protected the Janowskis as well as any real shield.
“I came back after undergrad. Someone needs to keep the force in line when Dad’s sheriff and can’t be chief,” Janowski said nonchalantly. “This area’s getting worse by the day. Sure you see the worst of it in a place like this.” He glanced out the large windows in the direction of the St. Jonah’s boys, who were sharing a cigarette. “I know this place is a target for robbers.”
Not just robbers, but holdups. “Not during my shift.” Nick hooked his thumbs into his baggy jeans so he didn’t end up punching Janowski. I hate your face, Ian. How can you talk to me like this is normal? You’re looking down on me, you piece of shit.
“That so? What are you doing to stop the holdups?” Why did Ian want to chat? There weren’t even any other customers Nick could use to avoid this situation.
“Yeah. You remember I throw a damned good punch,” Nick said. Ian had been on the receiving end of those punches enough times. Nick’s work here was often playing the role of bouncer. He had three late-night shifts a week, and those could be eventful with bar goers and others wanting to blow off steam, even during an errand like going to the gas station. Nick had grabbed enough of them by the collar and kicked them outside. Would-be robbers weren’t the types to call the police.
“Even if it’s not basketball, this suits you.” Ian smirked. “I got my Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice. You make it to any school, Flanagan?”
“Nah.” Nick shrugged, as if it didn’t bother him that his grades had been average – not enough to secure the scholarship he needed, not if he couldn’t play sports because of this damned knee. Average students were in abundance. Star athletes who were willing to put in the hard work were not. “So, where you want your sign?”
Ian pointed to the glass door, already plastered in advertisements. “Right on the front door.”
Great. Nick was going to have to relocate a bunch of stuff and find a new place for it – people trying to sell cars or find lost pets, all far more worthwhile than reminding people Butch Janowski was running for sheriff.
“At eye level,” Ian added. “Eye level for the suburban housewives and stooped-back old men.”
Nick took the sign and the tape, then began ripping down an ad for a lost cat, another ad for a bike for sale, and several for used cars for private sellers. As he worked, he could feel Ian’s breath on his neck. Why is he all up in my personal space?
“You voting Janowski?” Smugness oozed into Ian’s voice as he puffed out his chest.
“No,” Nick said. He wasn’t even registered to vote. “Voting for…” Who the hell was running against Janowski? Almost no one around here had her signs in their yards.
“Voting for Sanderson?” Ian laughed. “She’s got the minority vote, all five of them in the county.”
“My friends are voting for her, too,” Nick said, slapping some tape on the back of the sign to adhere it to the door. He still had time to register to vote, even just to vote against someone like Janowski gaining power. Butch Janowski might become sheriff, no, would become sheriff. Ian would inherit his father’s position as chief of police.
Nick shuddered as he thought of how Ian had mercilessly tortured Luca and Don every time they were without him and Tschida. A different class schedule had made it difficult for the four to be together constantly, as well as their extracurriculars. While Tschida had debate club, Nick had sports, and Luca and Don had been on the school newspaper.
“Tschida, too?” Ian laughed. “Guess Sanderson has the psycho vote locked, too. There are a lot of crazies here, and Tschida’s probably the worst. Maybe Dad should be worried about Sanderson winning.”
Nick shook with rage. To call Tschida a psycho? Tschida, the one man who’d shouldered the protection of Luca and Don with Nick? Tschida, who’d kept Nick calm, stood back to back with him and carefully landed his punches, never acting like any of it was a big deal.
He turned from the door, dropping the papers. “Shut up.” The reins on Nick’s temper slipped away, even as stupid and futile as he knew it was to stand up to a Janowski. Hadn’t they all learned that? Don the most, and then Tschida. “Get out of my store!” If Ian just went, Nick could use the punching bag he’d set up in the office to blow off steam and pretend this meeting didn’t happen, go back to his dull and monotonous life, and pretend that it didn’t matter he was here and not competing in the NBA.
It isn’t that bad. You’re a manager. You have benefits. The work isn’t hard. You can have a family. His thoughts filled with Luca and Tschida, his current family, his long-time family, the people he needed to keep safe. Instead, Tschida was doing…who knew what and Luca was drowning in his father’s debt. He should have been a star, taking his friends with him, giving them some kind of managerial jobs. They’d all have escaped this place.
This isn’t where I was supposed to be! This isn’t what I worked for! And now this asshole is rubbing it in!
Ian’s eyes turned cold. “Don’t threaten me, Flanagan.”
“I wasn’t threatening, you steaming pile of—”
“You look like you are.” Ian’s blue eyes shifted pointedly from Nick’s face to his raised fists.
When had Nick raised his fists? One foot was planted in front of the other, like he was going to throw a punch. How would this look on the security camera? “Dammit! Go!” Nick jabbed his pointer finger toward the door. “Your sign’s up!” The last thing Nick needed was to lose this job, unless he wanted warehouse, retail, or food industry work; his knee would never be able to handle standing and walking nearly all day. He was lucky enough his workplace allowed him three sick days a year, and one hour off every six months for a doctor appointment.
“Heh.” Ian smirked. “You triggered?” He shoved open the door, sending the bell to jangling wildly.
Nick clenched his teeth and plopped back on the metal folding chair, arms crossed. He’d watch the security cameras until Ian was gone.
But Ian didn’t get right into his squad car and leave. Wasn’t it illegal or something to campaign while on work hours? Not like laws applied to the Janowskis.
Ian moseyed to Billy and Blaze, briefly mugging for the security camera outside. Both boys’ heads snapped up, spines straightening. Blaze put out his cigarette on the bottom of his high-top sneaker. Words that Nick couldn’t hear were exchanged.
Nick was definitely going to blow this if Ian didn’t leave. He knew Luca was at his All Mart job right now and couldn’t have his phone, but Tschida was either at the country club or at home. Badger Vale was much laxer about phones than All Mart.
Nick unlocked his phone as the grainy images continued to mouth words at each other. Billy and Blaze had moved closer together, Blaze making wild hand gestures. Don’t, Blaze. Don’t. Janowski’ll use it as an excuse, say he felt threatened.
Nick typed: [
Tschida, usually one to take his time responding, replied swiftly, the little dots at the bottom of the text screen bouncing erratically until the message finally appeared: [
Nick: [
Tschida: [
Nick’s fingers flicked across the keys, ignoring autocorrect: [
He looked to the camera again. Tschida had responded so swiftly. He couldn’t tell Tschida what Ian had said about him.
Ian shook his head and pointed toward the squad car as the two boys exchanged nervous glances.
Nick cursed under his breath as he stalked toward the front door and flung it open, the bells at the top jangling wildly. “What’s going on?” The door swung closed behind him, the Janowski campaign sign flitting to the floor inside the shop.
“Underage smokers loitering,” Janowski said, shaking his head in disapproval. “They think they’re allowed to be here and smoke.”
“If I had a problem that I couldn’t handle, I’d have called you.” Nick’s left eye twitched and he crossed his arms. You didn’t call the police unless you were wealthy, not unless you wanted some fine for an expired inspection sticker on your car or an unlicensed dog. In the latter case, you’d be lucky if the cops didn’t shoot the dog; they always feared for their lives. Such weak jerks. Not like me and Tschi.
“Like you handled the robbers?” Ian raised a smug brow. “Yeah, Flanagan can handle everything. Maybe you should’ve gone to be a cop if you can do that. Instead, you’re minimum wage selling chew and lottery tickets.”
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