The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up by Jacob M. Appel Read Free Book Online Page B

jogging trail where the city’s gardeners had recently set down a bed of asters and heliotrope. “Where the hell are you taking me?” demanded the girl. “We’re spinning in goddam circles.”
    “Squares,” retorted Arnold.
    Soon they emerged opposite the Plant Centre. Arnold was relieved to see that Guillermo had the place up-and-running in his absence: Display trays of African violets and New Guinea impatiens lined the sidewalk; the heavy iron gates had been drawn open and festooned with wandering jews. Arnold also noticed several unfamiliar decorations: an American flag taped under the “Summer Sale” sign and two dozen plywood boards leaning against the brickwork. Inside, the air smelled pungently of pine sap and pollen. There were only a handful of customers:an old man with a beagle, an unkempt girl walking her bicycle through the aisles. The nursery generally did very little business before noon in the warmer months. What surprised Arnold was that there didn’t appear to be any staff on duty. Where were all those muscular, interchangeable youths—Ecuadorians, Peruvians—whom Guillermo hired “to do the heavy work”? And where were the salesgirls? He finally spotted Maria reading a tabloid behind the last checkout counter.
Soap Digest
. At least he wouldn’t be in that.
    “Morning, Mr. Brinkman,” said the saleswoman.
    “Where is everybody today?”
    “They’re in back, Mr. Brinkman. They’re watching television in Mr. Zambrano’s office.”
    “Are they?” Arnold muttered.
    Cassandra smirked. “You run a tight ship, don’t you?”
    He ignored her. “Maria, go outside and take down that flag.”
    “But Mr. Zambrano said—”
    “I don’t care what Mr. Zambrano said. Take it down. When Mr. Zambrano owns his own nursery, he can fly any damn flags he wants.”
    “Yes, Mr. Brinkman.”
    “And Maria—”
    “Yes, Mr. Brinkman?”
    “For the last time, do not call me Mr. Brinkman.Arnold.
Please
.”
    “Yes, Arnold.”
    The middle-aged saleswoman looked at him as though he’d ordered her to call him “Attila the Hun” or “Mary Poppins,” but she shuffled outside to remove the flag. Arnold led Cassandra through the cactus-filled hothouse, then between the pyramid displays of wheelbarrows and power saws, to the far corner of the enormous hangar. That’s where Arnold and Guillermo had their adjoining offices. The manager claimed the larger of the two, the one that had once belonged to Hans Overmeyer. It was the only room in the nursery that didn’t contain any plants.
    Arnold found his employees gathered around the portable television on Guillermo’s enormous steel desk: a dozen broad-shouldered, copper-skinned men in white t-shirts; several salesgirls in green blazers; the portly Jamaican woman named Lucinda who did the books, the Korean high school student whom Arnold had hired as part of the city’s Young Entrepreneurs Program. At first, the botanist hoped they might be watching a soccer match. But they weren’t cheering.
    When he entered, they stepped away from the television in obvious discomfort. They’d been watching
his house
on the news.
    “Good morning,” said Arnold.
    A chorus of muttered greetings arose—some in English, some in Spanish.
    “Time to go back to work.”
    Several of the men nodded. None moved. Only the Korean boy retreated around Arnold into the nursery.
    “What are you waiting for? I’m not going to show up
there
,” he added, nodding toward the TV. “I’m already
here
.”
    Slowly, in twos and threes, the workers departed. Eventually, only Guillermo and Lucinda remained. On the television screen, they’d cut to an interview with the Bronx District Attorney. “It’s not clear that any crime has been committed,” said the female prosecutor. “But we’re looking into the matter closely.”
Among the charges Mr. Brinkman could face
, added a fast-talking reporter,
are disturbing the peace and contributing to the delinquency of a minor
. Then they