Runner by Carl Deuker Read Free Book Online Page A

you and your old man a life preserver and you won't grab hold. But I'm a patient man, so here's what I'll do for you. You think over my offer this weekend. On Monday, you'll find a gray backpack in your locker. If you wear that backpack when you run, I'll know you want the job. If you don't wear it, I'll find somebody who knows a good deal when he sees one."
    "How are you going to get into my locker?" I said. "You don't know my combination."
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key chain filled with keys. "Don't forget. I work here. I've got keys to everything." Then he smiled, turned on his heels, and walked away.
    Once I was back on the
Tiny Dancer,
I took the hundred-dollar bill out and held it up to the light. I don't know why—it's not as if I could recognize a counterfeit bill, anyway. Then I laid it on the table and stared at it.
    If you live on the waterfront long enough, you know illegal stuff goes on. You don't see it necessarily, but you feel it—people that don't look quite right, boats that don't look quite right. The Coast Guard and the port police aren't there for the fun of it. Twice in the last year I'd seen guys get arrested at the marina.
    The fat man knew more than he was letting on, that was for sure. If the whole thing were as easy as he said it was, he wouldn't pay me for doing it. He'd take a stroll down the beach after work and pick up the packages himself. There was no future in what he was proposing, but I wasn't worried about the future. I was worried about next month. I picked up the bill and held it to the light again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    The next day was a Saturday—and that meant work. At one-forty-five I headed up Seaview Avenue toward Ray's. You hear about restaurants having filthy kitchens but Creager ran that kitchen as if it were a hospital. "Spic and span!" he'd say every time he walked through. "Clean and cleaner!"
    I hated everything about my job: the windowless room, the food baked on the pans, the smell of the soap. But most of all I hated the heat. To satisfy Creager, the water had to be just short of boiling. I wore rubber gloves that went up to my elbows, but I could still feel the heat right through them. No matter how cold it was outside, I always stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts when I worked. Even so, I'd be sweating like a pig within five minutes of starting my shift.
    I scrubbed those pots until they shined, then scrubbed them some more. After that I rinsed them over and over. The first day I'd worked there, I sent a pan to the cooks that hadn't
been rinsed enough. "Do you eat soap?" Creager had screamed, holding the pan up. "Do you?" When I shook my head, he got right up in my face. "Well, neither do our customers. Never send back a pan like this again. Do you hear me?"
    I worked Saturday and Sunday that weekend, from two in the afternoon until ten at night. Through both shifts, all I could think about was the hundred-dollar bill the fat guy had given me. Eight bucks an hour is what I made at Ray's. But I didn't get all eight dollars. After the government took out all the stuff they take out of paychecks, I took home less than seven an hour. Sixteen hours of hard work for what the fat guy had given me to listen to him talk.
    Creager came over to me as I was hanging up my apron at the end of my shift on Sunday night. "I won't be needing you until four o'clock from now on, Chance. I'm sorry. I really am. I know things are tough for you and your dad. Around Christmas, business is sure to pick up. When it does, I'll get you more hours. And if anything comes up for your dad over the holidays, I'll let you know."
    "Don't worry about me," I said. "I've got a line on another job. The pay is better and so is the work. I'm sick of scrubbing pots, anyway."
    Creager stiffened. "When will you know about this new job?"
    "I already know about it," I said.
    "So when will you be quitting here?"
    I hung my apron on the little hook and turned to him.
    "That's it. I'm