A Score to Settle

By Ian Augustine

Pearson Reed vanished five years ago in the wake of a robbery gone wrong. Drifting across the nation, living under assumed names, he has eluded authorities and enemies at every turn. But when his cover is threatened after a night of violence, Pearson is forced to reemerge and deal with unresolved issues from his brutal past.

Dangerous men have descended on the city of St. Augustine, Florida, to collect a dead man’s hidden fortune -- a fortune Pearson knows more about than anyone. What he doesn’t know is that he is walking into a trap that will activate the moment he sets foot in town. A trap set by an enemy Pearson never saw coming.

From the writer of Scorecard comes a new book in the Downturn Series. Look for A Score to Settle in the Winter of 2013.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Augustine
• Release date: Jan 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9780985696917

Ian Augustine

Ian Augustine is the co-author of Scorecard, the first novel in the Pearson Reed Trilogy, as well as Turnball City Tales. He attended the University of Memphis before transferring to Flagler College where he graduated with a degree in History. He has worked as an archivist, docent, and technical writer. A lifelong sports fan, he hopes to visit every professional ballpark in Major League Baseball. He puts hot sauce on everything, and never met a bowl of chili he didn't like. He lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with his girlfriend, Melissa, and a fat dog named Topper.

Book preview

A SCORE TO SETTLE

A Novel

By

Ian Augustine

Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©2012 by Kyle Ian Smith

www.Ianaugustine.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hardwork of this author.

Note:

Readers familiar with St. Augustine will recognize that a number of street names, hotels, motels, parks, neighborhoods, and other locales are fictional creations. For the purpose of the story, these fictionalized settings were necessary. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

For my Mother

A SCORE TO SETTLE

To take revenge halfheartedly is to court disaster; either condemn or crown your hatred.

-- Pierre Corneille.

PROLOGUE:

BAD SHADOWS

The SUV swerved wildly out of control along a deserted stretch of forgotten county highway and rocketed off the shoulder, engine bellowing, wheels spinning freely. The Chevy’s front end bucked viciously at the bottom of a steep embankment and punched through a roadside fence. Barbwire lashed the hood and windshield with a shriek, scraping both like the talons of a feeble bird. Undeterred, the vehicle plowed into the moonlit meadow beyond, galloping unevenly across the dark landscape. Funneled downward by the terrain, it descended into a bowl-shaped cavity peppered with scrawny pine trees and Florida Elm. Scrub brush and damp soil robbed the charging beast of momentum, eroding its energy until at last the Chevy lurched to a halt.

Inside, eleven-year-old Shane Forester drew what felt like his first breath in hours. Hot tears burned down his miserable face, and snot oozed from his runny nose. He wiped both away with the back of his shaking hands and opened his eyes to velvety layers of darkness. The sour tang of vomit clung to the roof of his mouth. Damp and cold, the puke spread down the front of his Tony Hawk pullover, pasting the downy fabric to his flesh. A groan escaped his lips as he gingerly lifted his head off the floor of the SUV’s cargo compartment. His muscles and joints ached, and his limbs felt heavy and unwilling to coordinate. Even his teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly. Dizziness seized him the moment he sat upright, and he suddenly feared he might pass out.

No, no, no…

He closed his eyes once more and waited for the moment to pass. Individual snippets of sound registered more clearly for him as the ringing in his ears gradually abated: the hum of the engine, the repetitive click of an activated turn signal, wind buffeting the side of the vehicle.

Shane opened one lid and peered into the frigid night.

The world beyond the window slowly drew into focus.

The SUV had come to rest in the middle of a vast, moonlit horse pasture. Behind the vehicle, brake lights illuminated a wide swath of flattened grass that extended back toward the road above. There, at the edge of the country highway, bathed in amber streetlights, barbwire curled ominously atop busted wooden fence posts.

Shane drew his knees to his chest and breathed deeply. His head buzzed the way it did when he drank too much soda, and his hands shook uncontrollably. Aside from a lump above his left eye, the wild ride had left him with a bruised hip and two torn fingernails. As injuries went, he had done far worse at the skate park. Just last week he had ripped the skin off both elbows after failing to bail on a dare gone wrong. It had been one of those impossible challenges LaRon was always setting him up for. A nollie into a noseslide on the shallow rails or a helipop kickflip at speed. Something absolutely impossible for Shane to execute, but something he inevitably attempted nevertheless. Hell, at his age he had more battle scars than most of the showoffs down at Treaty Park.

Definitely more than the private school kids, anyway.

No, the hip, the fingernails, and the lump were nothing. The vomit, on the other hand, bothered him. It wasn’t like he’d been sick. Just scared. And scared wasn’t cool. Only punks puked when they were scared -- and not the cool kind of punks that Uncle Bart rocked out to when he smoked a J back at the trailer. Poseur punks, pussy punks -- that’s who puked when they got scared.

Shane had never thought of himself that way. Not ever. And, yet, here he was, covered in cold green slime, with tears in his eyes, and snot stuck to his upper lip. Seriously, it was bad enough that he had the lingering taste of blood in his mouth, but puke meant…

He sat ramrod straight. Blood. Oh, God!

The events of the past hour crystallized in his mind with frightening clarity.

The gunshots.

The screaming.

Miss Mara wailing.

August pleading for her mom.

The car chase.

Mr. D covered in blood.

Mr. D, Shane called out. Mr. D, are you okay?

His ribs ached as he dragged himself out of the cargo compartment and over the first row of seats. Nothing felt broken, but with ribs it was always a tough call. Uncle Bart had once told him that as long as there weren’t any sharp pains when you took a breath your ribs were okay. But then Uncle Bart spent the better part of the day drinking Bud and pissing a stream through the tire swing out back.

So…

Shane ignored the pain in his side and climbed to the front of the passenger cabin.

Mr. D sat slumped against the steering wheel, one arm splayed over the dash, the other hanging limply at his side. His head was turned away from Shane, buried in the deflated airbag. If it weren’t for the blood, Shane might have thought he was simply asleep. He’d certainly witnessed enough scenes like this outside his uncle’s bar -- sloshed drunks passed out inside their cars, glued to their steering wheels by drool.

But the blood here was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Even in a movie. Even on the internet, where all the grossest stuff was.

Here, the blood was...everywhere.

Smeared on the dashboard, the steering column, the wheel.

Leaking from a wet hole in Mr. D’s back, his neck. Down his shirt, his arm.

And it had a smell. Like dirt or…no, it was metal. It definitely smelled metallic.

Shane tasted his own blood again, the coppery base mixed with the bite of stomach acid. He swallowed hard, as if that alone would remove the unpleasant film from his tongue.

Mr. D, can you hear me?

When Mr. D didn’t respond, Shane instinctively peered outside for help.

A pond was visible in front of them. The glassy surface reflected a full moon that seemed exaggerated and misshapen. Beyond that, the world was nothing more than a dark ridgeline and night sky. No houses, no buildings at all…nothing.

You’re all alone.

Shane took hold of Mr. D’s shirt collar, careful not to touch the blood oozing from his neck, and pulled him upright. Mr. D’s head rolled to the right. Glistening sweat on his dark brown skin reflected the dashboard lights. His coffee colored eyes flashed wide, and he coughed violently, congestion rattling in his chest.

A thin line of blood dribbled down his bearded chin.

Mr. D, you need a doc—

Shane?

Mr. D’s eyes focused for a moment, and then flickered like all those channels Shane couldn’t get on his television back home.

Boy, what are you doing here? Why—

I’m sorry, Mr. D, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I heard you on the phone say that Miss Mara and August were in trouble. I hid in the back of your truck. I just wanted to help, but when that man fired his gun and Miss Mara and August screamed…

Oh, God, he’d never forget those screams.

Miss Mara crying out, August screaming, Mommy.

Mommy!

Shane shivered. He wanted that voice out of his head this minute. Wanted nothing more than to hop on one leg and empty it out like the water that got trapped in his ear whenever he went swimming in the pond behind the trailer park.

Mommy!

He’d never heard anybody sound so scared.

Mr. D coughed blood down the front of his shirt and Shane stiffened.

Mr. D, we have to get you to a hospital. We have to call the police and—

Mr. D seized Shane’s arm. No cops. You understand? His breath was hot and foul. It smelled like a combination of rusted iron and decayed meat. No cops. Those men will hurt Mara and August if you call— He coughed blood into his hand. They’ll kill them if—

More blood spilled from his lips.

The sound of a rapidly approaching vehicle caused both of them to collectively hold their breaths. Mr. D. killed the headlights while Shane angled to get a better view of the highway in the side-view mirror.

Twin beams of light carved through the night. The vehicle braked hard and drew to a halt along the shoulder above. Dark figures poured from the sedan’s four doors and stood shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the blacktop. Backlit by the streetlights on the opposite side of the highway, the men were nothing more than inky outlines devoid of features.

Bad shadows, Shane thought.

The words made little sense to him. Really, how could a shadow be good or bad?

But there it was, right on the tip of his tongue.

Bad shadows.

Mr. D wiped blood from his lips. They must have seen the hole in the fence.

Shane felt vomit stirring in his gut once more. What do we do?

You’ll have to drive. I might pass out again. My vision is going in and out, and I can’t feel my hands anymore.

Drive? Shane eyed the console, the giant steering wheel, the long hood extending into…well, farther than he could see.

Drive this?

I—

You can do it, Mr. D said. The congestion had worsened in his chest. He now sounded like an old man slurping soup whenever he inhaled. It’s already in gear. You just have to— He unbuckled his belt and crawled out from behind the wheel. Struggling over the divider, he collapsed onto the passenger seat with a groan.

Hurry, he pleaded.

Along the highway, angry shouts dropped with dead weight in the frigid night air. The focused beam of a flashlight flared to life and danced in the rearview mirror.

A voice cried, "Repede!"

Shane caught site of a dark figure waving frantically to a comrade at the torn fence line.

Hurry, Mr. D. mumbled again.

Shane scrambled behind the steering wheel. Driving wasn’t totally foreign to him. A few months back, he had driven Uncle Bart from the trailer park to the Kwick Mart for beer and lottery tickets. And now that Shane was old enough, Jessup Long, the trailer park manager with the missing finger, let him mow the lawn around the park’s front office on his riding mower to earn extra money.

But Shane had never driven anything the size of Mr. D’s Envoy. Not even close.

Fumbling with the switches on the chair, he managed to raise the seat until he could see over the steering column. He guided the seat as far forward as it would allow. The square weight of the brake pedal pressed firmly against the sole of his Vans just as the chair came to a stop.

He tucked the deflated airbag back into the wheel as best he could and checked his side-view mirror. Two sets of flashlights were now working their way down to the SUV.

Go!

Perched on the edge of the seat, Shane eyed the pond in front of them and the shallow ridgeline beyond. He tapped the gas pedal lightly, goosing the engine.

The Chevy leapt forward once, twice.

Steady, Mr. D cautioned. Steady pressure on the gas. You can do it.

Shane flipped on the headlights to see more clearly. Splotches of Mr. D’s blood trickled down the inside of the windshield and the dash. Ignoring the gore, Shane fixed his eyes on the pond directly in front of them and applied even pressure on the gas pedal. This time he managed to get the Envoy up over five miles an hour and keep it there. At the edge of the pond, he turned the wheel, felt the left front tire slide into the dark water and then out again. A ripple effect along the surface caused the reflection of the moon to shimmer.

Shane smiled. He had caused that ripple. He had caused it because…

He…

Was…

DRIVING!

Uncle Bart will never believe this!

Faster, Mr. D pleaded.

Shane pressed harder on the pedal as the vehicle circled the pond. The needle climbed from 5mph to 10. At 15 mph, the side-view mirror on the passenger door exploded. Seconds later, the rear window shattered.

A whirlwind of cold air rushed through the cabin, plunging the interior temperature to near freezing. Shane recognized the shrill scream echoing through the Envoy as his own and forced his mouth shut.

Another bullet slammed into the passenger door.

Shane turned the wheel. They were on the opposite side of the pond now. Up and up, out of the pasture, climbing the ridge.

He glanced over his shoulder and observed the flashlights scurrying back toward the highway. The bad shadows piled into their vehicle, and the sedan raced down the highway.

Shane faced forward as the nose of the Envoy crested the ridge.

Street lamps glowed brightly on the far side of a dark pasture that spread before him.

He stomped on the accelerator, and the SUV bucked over the uneven terrain. Ahead, a cattle fence materialized out of the darkness.

Faster, Mr. D ordered. To get through the fence.

Shane picked a point dead center between two wooden posts and gripped the blood-slick wheel. Ribbons of prickly barbwire snapped as the vehicle busted through the fence. The Envoy scaled the narrow shoulder with ease and raced onto the blacktop. Shane slammed on the brakes, and Mr. D tumbled forward. Penned between the edge of the passenger seat and the glove compartment, he stared blankly at the floor.

Hurry. I can’t see anymore.

Shane studied the road in either direction.

He had no idea where they were. West of US 1, for sure, but how far?

I don’t know where—

Use the GPS, Mr. D said.

Shane focused on the monitor fixed to the dash. He tapped the screen. A menu list popped up. He selected search and began to type ‘F…L…A…’ for Flagler Hospital, but then thought better of it. There were times it seemed like everything in St. Augustine was named after Flagler: neighborhoods, streets, colleges…everything. Instead, he typed ‘H…O…S…’ for hospital. The address flashed on the screen. Shane selected the entry and waited for the system to respond.

"E...leven…miles…to…des…ti…nation," The electronic voice articulated. "Turn…right…in...point…two…miles."

Shane followed the narrow country road east, out of the meadows and into thick pine forest. The G.P.S. led him down streets he had never heard of, past forgotten farms and foreclosed homes. At Bonner, he recognized the billboard advertising the Three Palms Trailer Park. The ache to turn left and continue home was almost too much to resist.

Home.

Mom, Uncle Bart, Uncle Bart’s gun.

Just three miles.

Wouldn’t that be the safest choice? Go home, call an ambulance, and wait?

Mr. D gasped. He was shivering now, the tremors increasing by the second.

No, Shane thought. Mr. D wouldn’t make it if he had to wait on an ambulance.

Home wasn’t an option. They had to get to the hospital now.

Shane turned the big steering wheel right and fixed his eyes on the road as the Envoy picked up speed. Streetlights in the distance bathed the blacktop in amber pools.

"Turn…left…in…point…three…miles."

The traffic light at US 1 was frozen red, the intersection empty in all directions.

Shane ran the light, hands locked with white knuckled ferocity to the wheel.

The SUV drifted wide and tilted uncomfortably to the right as he executed the turn. Warning tread on the edge of the highway vibrated through the frame. Broken glass and loose gravel crunched beneath the tires.

Shane reeled it in and guided the vehicle into the center of the two-lane highway. Northbound now, the Envoy gobbled up the white lines painted down the middle of the road as if they were candy. Cold wind roared through the cabin, chilling Shane to the bone. His teeth chattered incessantly and tears filled his eyes. As cold as he was, though, sweat beaded on his forehead, and not just a little bit either but full on the A.C. is broke in the trailer again dead-of-summer sweat.

The traffic light at 206 glowed green. Ditto the light at Watson Road.

Shane barreled through both, eyes locked on the dead center of the road.

At Wildwood Drive, headlights flared to his left as he passed through the intersection.

A four-door sedan shot forward. It fell in line behind the Envoy and accelerated.

Bad Shadows!

The road dropped low as the vehicles crossed Moultrie creek. Nighttime sky glowed across the surface of tidal pools on either side of the highway. The road rose again and the southern boundaries of the city took shape.

The sedan drew closer. It swerved right, then left and was suddenly alongside the SUV.

Shane allowed himself a moment to look and instantly regretted the decision.

The bad shadows were no longer merely vague outlines.

Now they were fully formed men with angry faces and hate filled eyes.

The sedan’s passenger window lowered. A man with long, dark hair poked his head out of the window and locked eyes with Shane. His thin lips sharpened into nonexistent lines as he smiled. He shouted at his driver, gesturing wildly with his hands to get closer. The sedan drifted slowly to the right, and the man in the passenger seat climbed out of the car window. Seated in the window frame, he reached with one outstretched arm toward the Envoy’s door handle.

Horrified, Shane turned his attention back to the road and screamed.

A pick-up truck had pulled onto the highway directly in front of both vehicles.

Car horns blared, tires squealed.

Shane kept to the right and cleared the truck by only a few inches.

The sedan caught the back of the pick-up, swerved, and veered left into the median. Spinning, it crossed the oncoming lane of traffic and slammed into a bank of mailboxes on the opposite side of the road. The man in the window fell free of the vehicle, tumbling limply along the shoulder.

Sickened, Shane brought the Envoy back to the center point of the northbound lanes.

Familiar locales flashed by: Wal-Mart, Uncle Bart’s Bar, the Ponce de Leon Mall.

"Turn…right…in…point…three...miles."

Flagler Hospital loomed above the St. Augustine Health Park, the biggest, brightest building in this part of the city. Entering the E.R. parking lot, Shane narrowly avoided an outgoing ambulance. He slammed on the brakes, and the SUV screeched to a halt. He killed the engine and leaned on the horn.

A triage nurse seated at the front counter peered out the window.

It’s going to be okay, Mr. D. We’re here. You’re—

The phone, Mr. D. whispered. His eyes were closed. The mocha complexion of his skin had grown ashen and spotty. Get my phone.

Phone? Shane mumbled. But we’re at the hospital. We don’t need to call—

Under… the seat. Mr. D struggled to breath. His words came out in rapid bursts followed by choked inhalations. I left it…under the seat. It might... have shifted.

Shane probed the floor with numb hands. His fingers brushed dead leaves, gravel, plastic straws, and coins -- everything but a phone. He reached farther back.

Nothing.

He eyed the floor mat beneath the steering wheel and pulled it aside.

Mr. D’s iPhone lay face down on the carpet.

Got it.

Take it… show them…when they come…show them.

Show who? The doctors? The police?

Mr. D shook his head. No, I have people…coming. They made… a promise…show them… show them… when they come— he struggled to catch his breath, tell them…see to… the willows…tell them I…tell them Deon said…see to…the willows and—

A mist of blood erupted from between his lips as he coughed violently.

Shane grabbed his arm. What people? he pleaded.

Three men outfitted in hospital scrubs rushed out of the ER entrance. They abruptly drew to a halt at the sound of tires screeching and turned their attention toward the commotion.

Shane followed their gazes and felt his pulse race.

At the entrance to the health park, the bad shadow’s crippled sedan labored up the road toward the hospital, headlights shattered, steam rising from the beneath the hood.

They’re back! Shane warned. What do we—

Mr. D clutched his arm. You got to run, Shane. Now. Fast as… you can.

Run? He stared at the sedan closing in, at the medical staff drawing nearer to the Envoy, at the triage nurse in the window, a phone at her ear.

Hoping, Please, let it be over!

Mr. D nodded. Yes. Run, Shane. Run…for…your life.

The note of desperation in Mr. D’s voice sparked Shane into action. He seized hold of the door handle, took one last look at Mr. D, and swallowed a sob. The driver’s door swung open heavily, and he sprang from the vehicle, sprinting for the shadows along the perimeter of the parking lot.

Running just like Mr. D told him to.

For his life.

PART I

THE SHORT LIFE OF ERIC WITTEN

1

The last night of Eric Witten’s life.

Wednesday: College Night, the Reef Bar and Grille.

Kitchen staff swarmed from counter to counter as dinner service kicked into high gear. At the fry station, Eric Witten took note of the frenetic pace of his fellow coworkers and resigned himself to the fact another long night lay ahead. Mopping sweat from his brow, he set to work on the next ticket: three orders of Buffalo wings, all drums, medium, with fries. The vinegar tang of hot sauce enveloped his workstation. It clung to his clothes, hair -- even his skin. The aroma burned inside his nose as he separated the flats (wings) from the drums (legs) and added them to the oil. A crooked clock mounted above the fryer was as close to a timer as he had. Watching the second hand round the dial, he uttered an inaudible groan at how much time remained before his shift ended. Five interminable hours until a hot shower and a cold beer. Until he didn’t smell like the inside of a hot sauce bottle.

Ticket in.

Heads popped up along the line as Bobby, the kitchen manager, shuffled from the window, ticket in hand. With his square shaped head, jaw, and shoulders, Bobby was the human equivalent of a cinder block. As always, the order exploded from his mouth as if fired from a cannon. At least that’s how everyone thought of Bobby’s voice -- as a weapon you didn’t want directed at you.

Reuben; side salad; one BLT; two Chicago dogs; side order chili. Also, two specials, no sides.

Thankfully the order didn’t require the fry station. Eric hurried to finish his present ticket. He pulled the fry basket from the oil and transferred the drums into the sauce bowl. Once they were evenly coated, he divided the chicken into three baskets. He added greasy curly fries, celery sticks, and dressing to round out the order and proceeded to the window.

Order up, he shouted in the direction of the service station.

Tera, one of the few members of the wait staff not thoroughly despised by the kitchen, popped her head around the corner. Tonight her hair was spiked with neon blue highlights and frosted white tips. Last week she’d sported a pink faux-hawk.

Those my clubs? she asked in a drawl so thick with southern richness it was practically deep fried.

Sorry, Eric shrugged. Wings, all drums, table six.

Dammit. That’s another of Maggie’s tables. Peeved, she turned toward the dining room. Girl has to be the worst waitress in all of Biloxi. Where the hell has she gone to now?

Eric shrugged. Haven’t seen her. Could you grab these?

Yeah, but can you check on my clubs? I got a frat boy on eleven sassin’ me up and down ‘bout his order, and I’m ‘bout to smack him in his noggin’ with a spoon.

Eric chuckled. Sure thing. He turned from the window.

Hey, Eric? Tera drew closer to the window and lowered her voice. Can I ask you for a favor?

Eric registered the look of concern on her face. He stepped back to the pass and rested his arms in the widow. Face to face they were able speak without being heard.

What’s up?

She bit her lip. Could we maybe talk a sec after service?

Eric peered over her shoulder into the dining room. The daily barflies were thinning at the stick as happy hour drew to a close. In their place, fresh-faced college kids, flush with cash, saddled up to the bar, drinks in one hand, smartphones in the other.

Some college kid giving you a hard time out there?

A rush of air escaped Tera’s glossy lips. I wish it were that. That I could handle. She peeked over his shoulder. It’s just…I don’t know. She shook her head. I saw somethin’ earlier that sort of spooked me. I just wanted to ask your opinion ‘bout it before I go runnin’ my mouth to Bobby. Is that cool? I’m parked right across from you. It’ll just take a sec.

Eric studied her. As tiny as she was, Tera had always reminded him of a pixie. With all the crazy hairstyles and body art, it would have been easy to dismiss her as a flake, but that wasn’t the case. Word around the restaurant had it she was only a few credits shy of a nursing degree. Most everyone agreed she was a dependable coworker and nice person, but that didn’t mean Eric wanted to get involved in her life. He had flown under the radar for more than three months at the Reef by avoiding exactly this kind of interaction. He had a good gig here and hoped to keep it that way for at least the remainder of the winter. The last thing he needed was some bar waitress -- even one he liked -- dragging her drama into his already disastrously complicated life.

Listen, Tera, maybe it would be best if you just talked with Bobby about whatever—

Two minutes, please. That’s all I’m askin’. It might be nothin’, just me bein’ crazy. I don’t want Bobby to think I’ve lost it. He’s already short with me for callin’ out last week. He’s cut my hours, Eric. I just don’t want trouble if I can avoid it.

Eric hesitated.

You’ve made this mistake before, he thought.

Tera’s lips pursed. She seemed to be holding her breath.

He sighed. Fine, two minutes. He handed her the baskets. Now will you run these to table six?

Relieved, she sprang to life. Of course. Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. She seized the baskets and charged into the dining hall.

From the window, he watched her vanish into the crowd.

Not a smart move, buddy. Not at all.

Annoyed with himself, he turned back to the kitchen and nearly had his head taken off by a plate of meatloaf and mash being rushed to the window. He steered clear of Bobby at the flat-top and headed toward pantry to check on Tera’s clubs.

At the dish pit, a Korean woman affectionately known as Last Name Kim -- to help distinguish her from Fat Kim, the dyke bartender, and Bitch Kim, the hostess that flunked out of Ole Miss -- flashed him a smile. She pointed at the new guy manning the pantry station, soapy suds dripping from her gloved finger. With a subtle shake of her head, she whispered in broken English, He no make it long.

Eric shot her a thumbs up and proceeded to pantry, where the new guy, Owen, stood frozen before his station, staring plaintively at a half completed chicken wrap. He reached blindly in the direction of his prep box, hand loitering over an array of prepared vegetables and dressings.

Eric smiled. He had witnessed that expression of complete bewilderment numerous times in kitchens all across the nation. Had worn it a few times himself.

He cleared his throat.

Startled, Owen took a step back from his station. He was a small man, mid-twenties, with coke bottle glasses that magnified furtive eyes. A wisp of a mustache discolored his upper lip the same way eating a messy desert might -- unevenly. Greasy brown hair poked out from beneath his hairnet. His smock was stained with so many different sauces and condiments it resembled a Jackson Pollack painting.

That special ain’t going to make itself, Eric joked. Need a hand?

Owen glared at him. Jaw tightened, fists clenched, he seemed to weigh the question as if it might be a cruel joke or insult.

Is it remembering what’s in it or assembling it that’s the problem? Eric asked.

What’s it to you? Owen challenged in a low country voice.

Eric shrugged. Just noticed the look on your face, been there myself. I know it’s your second night and it can be confusing. I thought maybe you could—

Owen nodded toward Bobby. The bully send you over here to chew my ass?

Eric glanced toward Bobby. No, he didn’t. And there’s no reason to be uptight, man. We’ve all been right where you are. Trust me. He nudged Owen aside. Let me show you. He grabbed a knife off the magnetic strip to the left of the prep box and pointed at the chicken strips on the far side of the station. You cut those first. Then you grab a fresh wrap. Dressing in the first third. He demonstrated as he went along. Now you go chicken, then slaw, cilantro, carrot, crunch, blue cheese crumples over that, Frank’s hot sauce to finish it up, roll the wrap up and under, towards you. He sliced the wrap. Both ends in the basket, one flat, one up. Add fries or salad according to the ticket.

Owen sneered. So you’re what -- the kitchen know-it-all? If you’re such hot shit, Emeril, why they got you mannin’ the fry station, huh?

Eric stared at him with a blank expression.

You’re welcome, asshole.

He cleaned the knife and placed it back on the strip. Just thought I’d help, man.

"Don’t need your help, man."

Eric turned toward the dish pit. Last Name Kim shrugged.

He no make it long.

Might not be proper English, but it was a damn accurate assessment.

Screw him, Eric thought.

So you got it?

I got it, Owen answered.

Glad to hear it. Guess that means you can get your ass in gear on those clubs Tera’s been waiting on, right? Or you need me to show you how to make those also? He pointed to the misplaced ticket. Table eleven, ace.

Before Owen could respond, Eric spun on his heels and wandered back over to the fry station to await his