Chapter Fifty-Five. Holden
FIFTY-FIVE
Holden
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Three pairs of eyes stare at me, arrogance etched in the lines of their faces.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Simpson,” Williams says with a knowing glance over to Porter and Rothschild.
“Yes, you do. I was in the locker room. I heard the whole conversation. I know you guys took the caddies’ tips.”
“You can’t prove shit,” Rothschild says. “In fact, it sounds to me like you’re confessing right now that you know where the money is kept. There’s three of us and one of you. I mean…”
“You piece of shit,” I mutter.
“Watch your tongue, Simpson. You’re nothing here. A replaceable employee,” Porter says.
“A Fairmont freak,” Rothschild taunts.
“Turn yourself in or else I will. It’s not fair to Memo to lose his job over this.” And isn’t that the truth? Memo was seen in the locker room moments before the money was discovered missing. The only reason I’m here confronting these fuckers is because Memo needs this job.
“You act like we’re scared.” Clank. Click. Clank.
“I’ll give you until the end of the day, and then I’ll say something,” I threaten.
“Funny,” Porter says with a roll of his eyes. “You can’t prove a thing.”
“The video on my phone can though,” I bluff. For a brief moment, I think I have them. They glance nervously at each other moments before Williams throws his head back and laughs.
“Good one, Simpson. If you had it, you would have already shown it,” Rothschild says.
“Fuck off, dude,” Williams says as he strides off the green.
I have visions of jumping on his back and tackling him to the ground. Something. Anything. To hurt him a fraction of the amount he’s hurt me and my family.
But instead, I stand there on the edge of the fairway in my crappy uniform while they wear their fancy clothes, and know I have nothing on them.
Truth be told, I can’t say much to management other than I overheard them.
I don’t know what they were wearing.
I didn’t see them physically take the money.
I didn’t report it when it happened.
Now it’s two weeks later, and I look complicit because I didn’t say a fucking word.
That truth owns my thought the rest of the day. Through cleaning clubs and washing golf carts and then later washing down the patio. I might be a jack-of-all-trades here—willing to do the work that no one else will—but that doesn’t give me any more clout than the rest of the workers.
And it doesn’t make me feel more confident when I trudge to my manager’s office.
“Hey, Simpson,” Gary says somberly when I walk into his office. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Sure, but you say that like you called me in here.”
His eyebrows narrow. “Ralphie didn’t ask you to come see me?”
“No. I…” Shit. Why is he summoning me? “I came to talk to you about the Memo situation.” I draw in a deep breath. “I know who took the money.”
Gary leans back with his arms over his chest and studies me. “You do?”
“Yes. I was in the locker room and I heard them talking about it.”
“Who is them?” he asks, his voice void of all emotion.
“Rothschild, Williams, and Porter.”
He’s quiet for a beat. A beat I read as him knowing the complexity of the situation of an employee accusing the golden children of the club of stealing.
But when he speaks I’m feeling less certain of my footing.
“Funny seeing as how they all came forward and said they were in the locker room and saw you stealing it.”
“What?” I shriek.
He nods. “Yep. All three of them identified you as the person left in the locker room that day. Identified you by name.”
I laugh because that’s the only thing I can do. “That’s crazy, you know that?”
“So is accusing them of stealing,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“You believe them.” My voice is barely audible.
“I think it’s a hard stretch to believe the kids who have more money than God would need to steal from the tip jar while there is another kid broke as hell being accused.”
“Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I’d steal. I’m not like that,” I argue with eyes wide and a plea in my voice.
“Agreed. I’ve vouched for you, Simpson. Time and again.
And for some reason you can’t seem to stay away from these kids or out of trouble.
Is it jealousy? Is it that you can’t let go what they have and you don’t?
What is it, because if this is how you repay me for having your back, that’s more than fucked. ”
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it,” I say resolutely. “I told you who did it.”
“Well, they’re saying you did.”
“And their word is stronger than mine.”
He leans back in his chair and sighs. “They want an apology and the club wants the money returned.”
I snort. “For something I didn’t do.” I turn to pace the room. “This is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. To think you believe them over me because I come from Fairmont and they’re from here is absolutely fucking—”
“Your mom cleans over at the Rivercrest Office Park, no?” a voice at my back asks. I spin around to face Chief Williams, Chad’s dad, standing there in his tan uniform with the huge-ass gold star pinned to his chest.
Panic doesn’t just flicker, it explodes into an all-out assault on my system. Why is he here?
“Sir?” I ask as he runs his fingers absently over the handcuffs hooked on his utility belt. Subtle threat more than noticed.
“Your mom? She works over at the diner and then cleans at Rivercrest after hours, no?” He moves into the doorway, his shoulders spanning from one side to the other.
“Why? What does she have to do with any of this?” I ask cautiously as fear snakes up my spine.
“Because it would be a travesty for her to lose her job there. I mean, if her son’s a thief then he had to learn it from somewhere, right? And apparently a few things have gone missing at the office complex here and there over the past few months. It’s a logical conclusion to draw.”
I stare at him, jaw lax, heart racing, and tongue thick in my mouth. “I didn’t steal the money. And my mom didn’t take anything either. I’m not—she’s not like that—”
“I have three boys who say otherwise.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Three against one. That’s pretty convincing in the eyes of the law.”
“But I didn’t—”
“So here’s what you’re going to do, Sampson,” he says.
Sampson.
I stare at him, blinking. He doesn’t even know who I am. He hasn’t even made the connection. That’s how insignificant Mason’s life was to him, the life his son took, that he doesn’t even know our last name or the connection to me or to my mom.
Because if he did, he’d say something, right?
“You’re going to stop threatening and accusing the boys of stealing the money you took. Folks around here don’t look too kindly to defamation. Then you’re going to repay all the money stolen, which we have figured is about five hundred and eighteen dollars.”
“What?” I shriek. “I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t—”
“And then you’re going to write a written apology to the club members for trying to take advantage of them and their wealth so you could go buy some drugs or whatever it is you bought. So yes, they’ll know who you are. And yes, they’ll be aware there is a thief in their midst.”
“Sir. I don’t have any money. I don’t have—”
“Know your place in this society, Sampson, or it won’t end well for you and your family.
” He hooks his thumbs in his belt. “You’ll do all of this or else both you and your mom will lose your jobs.
The easiest way to get rid of trash is to make it so they can’t afford to take up space.
” His smile is smug as fuck. “Understood?”
I stare at the prick, unwilling to agree but refusing to risk everything we’ve worked for.
“The answer is yes, son. That’s the only one there is to give.” He looks over my shoulder at Gary and nods. “I’m trusting you to make sure matters are cleaned up.” He takes a step back. “Or the trash gets taken out.”
And then he walks off, the unique sound of all his gear on his belt moving with each step filtering back through the hallway to where I stand, staring after him.
I turn to look at Gary.
“I’m sorry, man. My hands are tied.”
“Better tied than in handcuffs.”