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Short Till by Frank Zafiro Atlas Brown slid the cash register drawer shut. He held the cash tray in his left hand, glad that his shift was almost over. The arches of his feet ached, and he was hungry. A light tap came at his elbow. He turned and saw Allie Pierce standing there. “What?” Allie gave him a shy half-smile. “Winston wants to see you.” “Now?” Allie nodded. “Yeah, he said right away.” Irritation tickled in his chest. What the hell does “Winnie the Pooh” want? Atlas thought. To Allie, he said, “My shift is almost up.” Allie shrugged. “All I know is he said to get you right away, and for you to go to the conference room.” A small surge of adrenaline shot through his body. “The conference room?” A shadow of concern crossed Allie’s face. She nodded sadly. Atlas cursed softly. The only good thing that ever happened in the conference room was getting hired. After that, it was all bad. Write-ups, suspensions, firings. Most employees referred to it as the “spanking room.” He trudged toward the back of the video store, still holding the cash till. His mind whirred as he struggled to remember the last thing he did that would get him in trouble. He was sure he’d been too smart about things to get caught. The scams he’d been pulling were rock solid ones. He couldn’t see how anyone could figure them out. As he passed through the Foreign Titles section, he cursed his bad luck. He’d always been a smart operator. Never caught, never even questioned, except for that final job. His planning hadn’t been the problem. It was that stupid klutz Kenny. First the taillight out on his girlfriend’s piece of crap Dodge. Then the nosy cop that pulled them over spotted a boxed DVD player in the backseat. Atlas had told Kenny to only put the swag in the trunk, but Kenny got greedy. The cops searched the trunk and since they’d hit the electronics store less than ten minutes before, it didn’t take Colombo to figure out the connection. The cops asked Atlas a few questions but he’d been smart enough to lawyer up. Kenny wasn’t as smart. He spilled his guts. After that, the cops didn’t ask Atlas any more questions. Kenny did six months, while Atlas did close to three years. Despite how it worked out, he didn’t figure Kenny to be the smart one. Kenny just got lucky that the cops didn’t screw him over. It didn’t do Kenny a lot of good, anyway. He showed up dead last Christmas, buried in the dirt basement of a house under construction up on Five Mile Hill. Atlas pushed through the double doors to the back of the store. He slid the cash till into the locker marked “To Manager,” and snapped it shut. Since he’d gotten out of the minimum-security prison, Atlas had tried living a straight life. Still, the video store didn’t pay much and he supplemented some with his scams. Pocketing cash credit for movies that supposedly didn’t play. Or rebate coupons on behalf of unwitting costumers. Sometimes he slipped a CD out the door. Atlas rubbed his damp palms on his green employee smock. He went down the narrow hallway and up a short flight of stairs. Winston’s office was on the right, his chair empty. Next was the spanking room. That door was shut. Atlas rapped lightly on it. “Come!” bellowed Winston. Atlas pushed open the door and stepped inside. Winston stood next to the table, which was bare except for a pair of manila file folders. Seated at the table was a rotund man, with short gray hair and sagging jowls. “You wanted to see me?” Atlas asked. Winston nodded. He motioned towards the seated man. “This is Mr. Reiser. He’s from corporate. He needs to talk with you, Atlas.” “About what?” “He’ll explain.” Atlas swallowed, nodding. “Okay.” Winston left without another word. Reiser stood and offered a pudgy hand. Atlas took it and found the grip to be firm. I can handle this, Atlas assured himself. He flashed a confident grin. Reiser’s expression was neutral, his eyes iron. “What’s this all about?” Resier motioned to the empty seat across from him. Atlas took it. Reiser sat, folded his hands and rested his elbows on the table in front of him. He regarded Atlas with an even stare. After a few moments, Atlas squirmed in his chair. Realizing this telegraphed his nervousness, he forced himself to stop. Reiser spoke. His voice had an easy quality to it. “How long have you worked here, Atlas?” “About a year.” Reiser flipped open the first folder. Atlas caught sight of his last name on the tab. “Says here you were hired eight months ago.” “Sure.” Atlas shrugged. “About a year, like I said.” Reiser gave him a small smile. “Close enough.” I’m smarter than this guy, Atlas thought. Confidence surged through him. “Do you know why I’m here today, Atlas?” “No clue.” “I work for the corporate office. My job involves dealing with shoplifters, bad check writers and sometimes it involves employee issues. You know what kind of issues I mean?” Atlas considered. He decided to play dumb. “Like harassment?” “No.” “Then I don’t know.” “I deal with internal loss,” Reiser told him. “That’s when employees take things from the store.” “Someone doing that here?” Reiser didn’t answer. He removed a pen from his suit jacket and twisted it so that the tip protruded. “Let me ask you a question, Atlas,” he said. “Sure.” “What’s the starting pay here?” “Minimum wage.” “And are there raises?” “After six months, you get fifty cents above minimum.” “And employee discounts?” “Right. Ten percent.” Reiser twisted the pen again. The tip retracted. “No one is going to get rich working here. Is that what you’re telling me?” “It’s a job,” Atlas said with a shrug. The guy was right, though. “Since the pay isn’t so great, do you think people in the store are ever tempted to take things without paying for them?” “I’m not,” Atlas answered. He suppressed a grin at his swift counter-punch. Let’s get that out right up front. Bam! Reiser waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mean you. Other employees.” Atlas scrunched his brow. Maybe they weren’t on to him, after all. He considered, then answered, “I suppose anybody might do something like that. If they were desperate enough.” “I suppose so. Or even just take something, planning on paying for it later. On payday, for instance.” “Sure.” “Would you consider that to be stealing, Atlas?” Reiser asked. “Taking something without paying now with the intent of paying for it on payday?” Atlas gave that some thought. He could afford to be forgiving here. It would make him look good, especially if he weren’t the target of this investigation. “Probably not,” he answered. “If someone did that,” Reiser continued, “what do you think should happen to that person?” Atlas took a deep breath. He let it out and shrugged. “I dunno. I suppose they should have to give it back.” “Should anything else happen?” “They should probably have to explain why they took it. Like, because money was tight or whatever.” He felt good about his answer. It made him sound like the thinking man he was. Reiser nodded his head, reinforcing Atlas’s confidence. Then Reiser said, “You know if any other employees ever had a short till, Atlas?” Atlas cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “No,” he said. This question was getting closer to him, but he still felt reasonably confident. His till had never been short. The refunds and coupons he’d used were all real. The customers just never saw the cash, is all. Reiser raised a brow. “No?” Atlas shook his head. “Don’t think so.” “But it happens.” “I’ve heard,” Atlas said, “but I haven’t really paid attention to who it was that came up short.” “Not your business?” “Not my business, right.” Reiser looked down at the file in front of him and turned a page. “You spent some time in prison, didn’t you?” Atlas set his jaw. “So?” Reiser said, “I’m just wondering if it were that experience that made you mind your own business around here so intently.” “Probably,” he grunted. “In the joint, if you stick your nose in someone else’s business, it gets busted off.” Atlas made it sound harder than it had been. Truth was, more arguments occurred over ping-pong games than other people’s business. Feelings got hurt more often than noses. But most people didn’t know that—prison was prison to them. “That’s not likely to happen here at the video store,” Reiser observed. Atlas shrugged. “Still a good policy to live by.” “That it is,” Reiser conceded. “That it is.” Reiser opened the second file and thumbed through it. The file was much thicker than Atlas’s employee file. Atlas spotted the word ‘investigation’ typed on the tab. As he read, Reiser tapped his pen absently. “I’m sure you’re aware,” Resier said in a distracted voice, “that we do audits from time to time. Some of your co-workers have come under suspicion for some of their register activity.” “Who?” “I can’t say,” Reiser said. He looked up and gave Atlas a tight-lipped smile. “Confidentiality issues. You might be able to help me, though.” “How’s that?” “Well, I’m not too familiar with how this register system works.” His tight smile turned sheepish. “In my day, you hit the price, hit another button and the drawer slid open. That was about it. That’s not the case anymore.” “Yeah, there’s a bit more to it than that,” Atlas said. “So I gather. Truth is, I’m at a bit of a loss as to how some of these losses are happening. But they are. The overall audit shows it.” Reiser shrugged. “I just have to figure it out. And my first thought was to ask the employees themselves.” Atlas considered what Reiser had said. “Anyone who’s guilty isn’t going to help you,” he ventured. “That’s right,” Reiser said. He snapped his fingers and pointed. “But anyone who isn’t guilty will help me. So not only do I figure out how things are being done, I get a pretty good idea whether my suspicions are accurate or not.” Atlas thought some more. Playing dumb no longer seemed an option. He decided to play Reiser, instead. “There’s probably lots of ways to manipulate the register system,” he said. “Like what?” “Just take money, I suppose,” Atlas started, hoping that would be enough but doubting it. As he expected, Reiser shook his head. “No, the tills are rarely short. And when they are, it’s usually a small amount—less than a dollar or so.” “That’s probably just an accident giving change.” “Right,” Reiser said. “So…” He raised his hand and dropped it, trailing off. Atlas picked up the thread. “So he’d have to do it another way.” “Like what?” Atlas paused, pretending to give it some thought. “Well,” he finally said, “he could set aside a few coupons.” “How do you mean?” “Just take a coupon for three dollars off or something. Run it through and just keep the money.” Reiser pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t that show up on the customer’s receipt, though?” Atlas nodded. “It would. But if he waited until the customer left, then ran it through under the same account number, a separate receipt prints out for that. He could pocket the cash.” Reiser scratched his chin. “Smart.” Atlas suppressed a desire to grin with pride. Instead, he said, “It’s just a matter of knowing the system.” “Which you do.” “Yep.” “Any other ways you can think of?” Atlas shrugged. “Sure, I guess. If he was assigned to checking in videos, he could cash out a few credits for damaged movies.” “Damaged?” “You know, DVDs that skipped or something.” “But what if someone checks the DVD and sees it isn’t damaged?” “Usually they’re not actually damaged, anyway. They’re just dirty. He could run them through the cleaner and say that fixed the problem.” “Someone could call the customer.” Atlas smiled. “Right. Who has the time to do that?” Reiser smiled back and said nothing. Atlas felt a spike of fear in his belly. The room seemed to have suddenly become very small. Very silent. Atlas heard his own breath as it quickened. He was suddenly aware of the light odor of Reiser’s aftershave, recognizing it as the same kind his uncle wore. Reiser slid the pen he was holding back into his jacket pocket. He leaned forward. “See, Atlas, here’s the thing. Under normal circumstances, you’d be right. Who looks for coupons, right? Who has time to call customers back and ask them about damaged DVDs? But in this case, I made the time.” Atlas tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “I found a few instances,” Reiser continued, “where a guy gave refunds for damaged rentals but the customer never received the money. The customer didn’t remember the movie being damaged, either.” Atlas opened his mouth, but Reiser held up his hand, leaning back and turning away. “No, Atlas, this is important. I want you to hear it.” Atlas remained quiet. “I figure,” Reiser said, returning his gaze to Atlas’s, “that this place doesn’t pay much and a guy might need a little cash to make ends meet. You know, just until he gets things squared away or gets a raise. So maybe this guy took some money from the till, doing these fake refunds, just to get by for a while. Could you see a guy doing that, Atlas?” Atlas nodded frantically. “Sure,” he croaked. “So can I. And it’s only a few bucks here and there. Not like the company is going to go bankrupt over it.” Reiser shrugged. “But the company has to know who they have working for them. They have to know that if their employees make a mistake, those employees will be honest about it. That means a lot to the company. You know what I mean?” “Yeah,” Atlas whispered. “Have you ever given out a refund and hung on to the money, Atlas? Even one time?” Atlas paused. He struggled to think it through. The guy already knew. Atlas was screwed. That is, unless he could spin it so that he could keep his job. “Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know,” Reiser said, nodding kindly. “But thanks for being honest about it. Now, I’ve found three instances of these false refunds so far, Atlas, totaling eleven dollars. If I look, will I find more?” Atlas shrugged. “Maybe.” “How many?” “I don’t know for sure.” “Five hundred?” “No!” Atlas protested. His voice lost it’s hoarse whisper. “Not even close.” “Three hundred?” Atlas shook his head. “No. Maybe seventy or eighty, I guess.” “And the coupon deal? How many of those?” “Forty or so.” Reiser made a couple of notes on the page. “Am I going to get fired over this?” Atlas asked. “Because I was only borrowing the money, like you said. Just until I got things straightened out. Then I was going to pay it back.” Reiser slid a clean notepad and a pen in front of him. “Write it down, Atlas. I’ll be right back.” “Where are you going?” “To tell the manager that you were honest with me.” Atlas nodded. That would help with the job. Reiser left the room. Atlas scratched out words on the page. He outlined the scams. Then he wrote what he thought was a particular eloquent paragraph explaining why he’d done it. Winston was a push-over. He’d let Atlas keep his job. He’d have to pay the money back, but he’d keep his job. Minutes droned by. Sweat popped out on Atlas’s brow. Another drop rolled coolly down the center of his back. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Winston would fire him. Maybe— The door opened and Reiser walked in. He immediately picked up Altas’s statement and scanned it. He nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Did you talk to Winston?” Atlas asked him. “Yes.” A tall, uniformed patrol officer with jet black hair appeared in the doorway. He stepped directly next to Atlas. “Stand up,” he said. “You’re under arrest.” “I’m…wha…?” Atlas snapped his eyes to Reiser as the uniformed officer pulled him to his feet. “But it was only a few bucks!” Reiser looked down at his file. “More like three hundred and some. That’s if you didn’t lowball me.” “Three hundred?” Reiser nodded. “Do the math, genius.” Atlas stood shocked as the handcuffs ratcheted onto his wrists. He had no reply. “Thanks, Gio,” Reiser told the other officer. “No problem, Will,” the uniform responded. “Hope you’re enjoying your retirement.” “I am,” Reiser said. “You want him booked on first theft or second?” Reiser glanced down at his file again. “You know, I’m not sure he made it to the fifteen hundred dollar mark, so let’s just go second.” “Fine with me,” Gio said. “It’s a felony either way.” “A felony?” Atlas sputtered. Reiser smiled, his eyes full of satisfaction. “Yes, a felony. And since you’ve already been convicted once before of a similar felony, I don’t think this ride will be so easy. You won’t spend it out at Geiger picking dandelions and playing badminton. You’ll go to a real prison this time.” Atlas’s heart thundered in his chest. He tried to swallow, but the dryness was back. Reiser gathered up his file folders. “Of course, you’ll do all right in the joint,” he said, speaking the two words with dramatic sarcasm. “Smart guy like you.” THE END Frank Zafiro © 2006 |
