I feel like junk (not the coronavirus: more like a gas attack of some kind), but I was able to get wordcount out. It may be all crap, though. I’ll know… later.
“So, what can you tell me about Brigham?” More like what will you tell me about Brigham, I thought as I looked Chuck over. He had the look of a guy who’d try to squeeze every single red thalía out of the info he’d deign to pass along, and the gory details were never worth the asking price. Normally I don’t care so much, but one annoying ongoing thing about this Case was the lack of an expense account.
But it turned out Chuck was ready to flap his gums over Those Damn Mormons, Coming And Stealing Our Jobs: “That Brigham kid? He was a real pain in the ass. Real kiss-ass, too. They started him out, a couple hours a week; next thing I know, he’s got a full shift, just like that! I might’ve wanted those hours, hey. I got, you know, expenses.”
“They didn’t offer you any?” I pulled out the cigarettes I offer people who aren’t Shamuses and offered him a smoke. The gilipollas took three.
“We talked about it, but the boss, he didn’t wanna make it worth my while. Then this jerk shows up, takes their first offer, and then where am I? Not getting overtime, that’s where I am.” He shook his head. “There oughta be a law.”
“So, he was a rude kid, then? Pushy? No respect?” I hadn’t gotten that impression about Brigham, but I wanted to see what Chuck said.
He started to say something, grimaced, and said, “Nah, he was just a kid who didn’t know how to say no, you know what I mean? People leaned on him to get him to do their jobs. I would tell him what they were doing. Brigham, I’d say, you can’t just let them walk all over you. And he’d say, Thanks for the advice, Mister Charles, smile a little, and then just let people keep doing it. I would have figured he was simple, if he wasn’t, you know, that way.” Chuck wiggled his fingers a little. “Not that I ever saw him do anything like that. Even when his buddy showed up.”