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"Sometimes you just have to," added Dave. "If you're working a real busy night and you don't get a break, you need something to keep you going."

  "Just so the managers don't catch you, right?" said Larry.

  "Yeah, but they're pushovers," declared Billy. "If you know their routines, and you keep an eye on them, you can get away with almost anything."

  "You've never been caught, huh?" Larry asked Billy.

  "Nope, never," Billy replied nonchalantly.

  "What about you?" asked Larry, turning his gaze to Dave. "Did you ever get caught?"

  For a moment, Dave hesitated. Though Larry seemed like a nice guy, Dave wondered if it would be wise to tell him any more about swiping food at the steakhouse. For one thing, it seemed dangerous to reveal damaging information to someone closer in age to a manager than an employee. For another thing, Larry had said that he'd known Tom Martin for years; it was possible that Larry and Martin were better friends than Larry had claimed, and whatever Larry heard might eventually get back to Martin.

  After a brief deliberation, Dave finally brushed aside his suspicions. Chiding himself for worrying too much, he answered Larry's question with a shake of his head.

  "You've never been caught either, huh?" said Larry.

  "Not yet," affirmed Dave.

  "So what do you guys like most then?" quizzed Larry, leaning back in his chair. "What's the best thing for a snack at Wild West?"

  "Sirloin tips," announced Billy. "They're easiest to sneak. You throw a bunch on the broiler with the regular orders, and the managers can't tell you're cooking anything you shouldn't be. You can even pop 'em in your mouth right there at the broiler when nobody's looking."

  "Chicken fingers are good," contributed Dave, pulling over a chair and dropping onto it. "Shrimp, too. Anything small is good, because it's easier to hide and you can eat it quicker."

  "The shrimp we get is excellent," nodded Billy. "A couple pieces of shrimp, some chocolate milk, and you've got yourself some good eatin'."

  "Chocolate milk, huh?" said Larry.

  "Yeah," grinned Dave. "There's nothing like ice-cold chocolate milk when you've been sweating in front of a hot broiler for six hours."

  "They keep that back in the walk-in cooler, right?" asked Larry.

  "Yup," said Billy. "It's perfect, 'cause that's the best place to go for a snack. You just grab one of those half-pint cartons off the rack and chug it right down."

  "Black gold," chuckled Dave. "That's what we call it at the Double-Doubleyoo."

  "Double-Doubleyoo?" frowned Larry.

  "Wild West," explained Billy. "You know, like there's two W's in 'Wild West,' right? So it's 'W-W'-Double Doubleyoo."

  "Brother," smirked Larry. "You guys have nicknames for everything."

  "It's our secret code," Billy whispered loudly. "Don't tell the managers!"

  "Don't worry," grinned Larry. "They'll have to kill me first, and that'd take some doing."

  "Black gold!" Billy said in a clownish stage whisper. "The password is 'Black gold'!"

  "This 'black gold'-do we get it free like soda?" asked Larry.

  "Nope," Billy replied after swallowing some beer. "Soda, coffee, and iced tea are the only drinks we're supposed to get free. Milk's off limits, but we drink it anyway. Everybody drinks it."

  "Well, not everybody," qualified Dave. "Just a lot of us. We've gotta' watch, y'know? We can't take it too often, or the managers might catch on when they do inventory."

  "Right," agreed Billy. "If there's a lot of cartons back there, help yourself, but if there aren't many, don't take any. It's easier for the managers to keep track if stock's low, so it's more likely they'll notice if some disappears."

  "Sounds like you guys have it all figured out," observed Larry.

  "Yeah, we've got a system," smirked Billy. "We've been at it so long, we oughtta' have it figured out."

  "So does everybody cover for everybody else?" asked Larry. "I mean, aside from the managers, is there anybody to watch out for?"

  "Nah," negated Billy, sweeping a hand through the air. "It's like, everybody grabs a snack sometime or other, so we're all in it together. No one's gonna' rat on you, 'cause they know they'd only be ruining things for themselves."

  "Honor among thieves, huh?" said Larry, a sly smile drawing up his mustache and goatee.

  "Right!" laughed Billy. "One for all and all for one!"

  "So, in other words," said Larry, "if I have a snack in the prep room or walk-in or wherever, and one of the other employees happens to stroll in and see me, I shouldn't worry about it."

  "Exactly," nodded Dave. "If it isn't a manager, don't worry. Just the other day, for example, I was drinking chocolate milk in the freezer, and Peggy Kutz walked in. She just laughed, and we kidded around about it."

  "Peggy Kutz, Peggy Kutz," muttered Larry, narrowing his eyes. "I think I may have met her. What's she look like?"

  "Well, she's tall," described Dave. "About six-two, six-three, and she's got black hair and glasses."

  "And a big butt," Billy added with a cruel gleam in his eye. "A really big butt. Bigger than this table."

  "I remember now," sparked Larry, snapping his fingers. "She was doing the salad bar this afternoon. I talked to her a little bit."

  "She's cool," said Dave. "We get along pretty well."

  "She's okay," grinned Billy, "as long as that big butt of hers doesn't knock you over. You gotta' watch out for that thing, man."

  "She's the one who saw you with the chocolate milk, huh?" Arms crossed, Larry tilted his chair back on its rear legs and stared thoughtfully at Dave.

  "Yep," nodded Dave. "Like I said, she didn't care."

  "You sure of that?" asked Larry.

  "Oh, yeah," said Dave. "I've known her a long time, and I know she'd never turn me in."

  "Never say never," said Larry, raising his eyebrows.

  "What do you mean?" asked Dave, frowning slightly.

  "I just mean maybe you oughtta' be more careful," Larry said slowly. "Maybe you shouldn't assume that no one's going to turn you in."

  "How come?" wondered Billy. "Are you planning on finking on us, man?"

  "No," Larry said flatly, shaking his head. "I've never been a backstabber, and I never will be. In my opinion, backstabbers are the lowest form of life on the planet."

  "Then what are you talking about?" pressed Dave, feeling a fresh tingle of suspicion.

  "I don't think you should take it for granted that everyone's going to cover for you," explained Larry, his eyes coolly meeting Dave's. "You can't always depend on people to keep secrets, especially if the secrets give them some kind of power over you."

  "Sure you can," clipped Billy. "I've been at Wild West almost six years now, and the whole time I've worked there, no one's ever turned anyone in for swiping food."

  "We're all pretty tight," added Dave. "We all look out for each other."

  "People are funny," said Larry. "They can turn on you in a second."

  "Not at Double-Doubleyoo," asserted Billy. "Most of us have been working together for years, and we don't sell each other out."

  "Hey," said Larry, crumpling his empty beer can in one hand. "All I'm saying is that it doesn't hurt to cover your ass. You never know when someone's gonna' have a change of heart."

  "Well, we appreciate the advice," Billy said sincerely, crushing his own empty can as well. "It makes sense, but it just isn't something we have to worry about."

  "Okay," shrugged Larry, letting his chair fall forward so that all four legs touched the floor. "If you say it's all clear at Wild West, that's your call. I'm still gonna' be careful, though."

  "You mean you don't want any more snacks?" asked Billy, his eyes glittering impishly once more. "You don't want any of those delicious porterhouses?"

  "I didn't say that," smirked Larry, rising from his chair.

  "I mean, if you really don't want to chance it, I won't send back any more 'practice' steaks. I don't want you to get busted or anything, Larry." Grinning like a lepr
echaun, Billy sounded obliging, as if he were truly concerned about Larry Smith's well-being.

  "No no," chuckled Larry, walking around the table. "You just keep those steaks coming. There's no need to be too careful here."

  "Okey-doke," laughed Billy. "As long as you're sure you can trust me."

  "Oh, I know I can trust you two," announced Larry as he flipped his mangled beer can into the trash bucket beside the refrigerator. "I'm not worried about you guys at all."

  "How come?" wondered Dave.

  "Because I know I can trust you," said Larry as he opened the refrigerator. "I can read people pretty well, and I can tell you two are okay."

  "So how often are you right about people?" asked Dave.

  "Always," said Larry, reaching into the refrigerator for a beer. "It's a knack I have."

  "Did you meet anybody at Double-Doubleyoo you don't think you can trust?" queried Billy, his voice laced with amusement.

  Larry nodded. "Just a few, but then I haven't met everyone who works there yet."

  "So who are they?" asked Billy.

  "Tom Martin, of course." Larry tugged a beer from the refrigerator and waved it at Billy, who nodded.

  "That's an easy one," said Billy as Larry lobbed the beer to him. "Who else didn't you like?"

  "I'd rather not say," evaded Larry, drawing his own beer from the refrigerator and closing the door.

  "Aw, c'mon," coerced Billy. "Who else?"

  "I won't say," insisted Larry. "I don't want you avoiding certain people just because I have a hunch about them."

  "Yeah," said Dave, "but you told us you're never wrong."

  "There's a first time for everything," countered Larry.

  "Oh, great," muttered Billy. "First you tell us there's people at the steakhouse you can't trust, and then you won't tell us who they are. Thanks a lot, Larry."

  "Personally, I can't think of anyone there who I might not be able to trust," shrugged Dave. "Besides Mr. Martin, I mean."

  "Then don't let me rain on your parade," said Larry, returning to his seat. "You just go on the way you've been, and forget my stupid hunches."

  As Larry suggested, Dave indeed forgot the hunches, and the conversation soon turned to other matters, like who the best-looking girls at the steakhouse were. Dave forgot other things, too, like the studying which he'd planned to do; as the evening wore on and he soaked up more and more beer, he thought less and less about his upcoming exams and the preparations he had to make for them.

  After a while, he grew thoroughly drunk, and ceased to worry about his schoolwork altogether. Instead of sweating over textbooks, Dave relaxed and had a good time with his old friend Billy and his new friend Larry. Though he'd only met Larry the day before, Dave already began to look upon him as a pal and confidant; the discomfort and suspicion which he'd felt toward Larry faded further with each fresh beer.

  Though he was the new guy in town, and twice their age, Larry was accepted by Dave and Billy into the Wild West gang that night. Unofficially, without ceremony, he was admitted to the inner circle of that exuberant squad of kids.

  *****

  Chapter 10

  "Hey, Dave, we need bakes," said Billy, dropping a metal tray on the counter of the fry cook station. "You got any done yet?"

  Nodding, Dave swabbed sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he answered breathlessly. "I just have to take them out of the oven."

  "Well, hurry up," Billy told him briskly. "I need seven right now." Swamped with work in the middle of the hectic supper hour at the steakhouse, the zany and gregarious guy was now all business, focused and intense. The elfin grin which usually lit his face had been replaced by a rigid, determined expression.

  "They're on the way," muttered Dave as Billy strode purposefully back to the broiler. Snatching the huge, padded mittens from the counter, Dave thrust his hands into them and tugged open the door of the top oven. There were two ovens stacked beside the fry station, and four racks of potatoes were baking in each of them.

  Swinging the oven door wide, Dave pulled one of the racks out a little ways and held it there with one mitt; with the other, he squeezed several of the foil-wrapped potatoes and found that they were soft enough to be served. Dragging the rack from the oven with both mitts, he lowered it to the metal counter of the fry station.

  Jerking open one of the long drawers under the counter, Dave dumped the potatoes from the rack into it. Dropping the rack on its side onto the floor, Dave slid it out of the way into the narrow space between the fry station and the ovens.

  Two more racks of potatoes were also done, and Dave deposited those in the drawer as well, then shut the oven door. Flinging the mitts from his hands, he then grabbed potatoes from the bin and arranged them in a layer on the tray that Billy had given him; when the first layer was done, he plucked a knife from the counter and slit the foil and skin of each of the baked potatoes, or "bakes" as the crew called them. Once the meal assemblers got hold of the potatoes, they could just push the ends of each one inward and the steaming white contents would flower out through the slits.

  After piling and slitting two more layers of potatoes, Dave hurried over and placed the tray on the metal lip along the front of the broiler. As soon as the tray touched down, Billy yanked bakes from it and slapped them onto platters which already held steaks.

  "Party of seven!" he hollered, spinning around with four platters in his hands, turning so quickly that he barely missed colliding with a passing waitress. Depositing the platters on the yellow plastic trays at the assemblers' station, he turned and snatched three more platters from the lip of the broiler. "Get these out fast as you can," he instructed the two girls working as assemblers. "They're late enough as it is." Chucking the three platters onto one of the huge trays, he swung back to the broiler and snapped his tongs from the lip, resumed flipping steaks.

  Hustling back over to the fry station, Dave jerked a wire basket from the vat of bubbling grease there. As the hot, dark grease drained from the basket, he let out a sigh of relief; he'd almost forgotten about the two breaded fish filets he'd been cooking, but he'd gotten them out of the fryer in the nick of time. Though the filets were just a shade too brown, they hadn't burned, and he could still serve them.

  As he pulled the fish from the basket with a pair of metal tongs, then dropped the filets onto platters, he heard one of the assemblers shouting at him. Her voice was strident, her tone sharp enough to make him wince.

  "Dave!" she blurted. "We're out of rolls again! We need rolls!"

  "All right, all right," he answered, popping potatoes from the drawer onto the platters of fish. "You'll have them in a minute."

  "We need them now!" blasted the assembler, her voice quavering between anger and desperation. "I've got a party of four that wants their meals, and they've been asking me about them every five minutes, and I don't have any rolls!"

  "All right, I said!" hollered Dave, rushing over to fling the fish dinners onto one of the assemblers' yellow trays. "Gimme' a minute, okay?"

  "I don't have a minute!" she snarled. "These people're getting pissed!"

  "I'm sure they can wait one more minute," he huffed, jumping back to the fry station, grabbing a bag of rolls and a metal tray from the counter.

  "You don't have to deal with these people!" she griped. "I'm the one they bitch at when they don't get their dinners fast enough!"

  Grimly, Dave ripped open the bag of rolls and plunked them onto the tray. He had to fight to restrain his temper as the assembler continued to bark at him; his whole day so far had been terrible, and he was in no mood to take any guff.

  The hectic steakhouse shift was just the latest of the day's difficulties, unfortunately. First he'd awakened that morning with a severe hangover, the result of his heavy drinking with Billy and Larry the night before. As if the pain of the hangover hadn't been bad enough, Dave had slept so late that he'd missed his first class at Orchard College...and he'd missed half his second class, too. On top of all that, h
is statistics professor had given a surprise quiz...a quiz covering material that Dave had planned to study the night before, but which he'd ended up not even skimming. After botching the quiz, he'd learned that final projects for his Auditing class would be due in two days; the deadline had been moved up a full week...and since he'd barely begun his project, he had no idea how he could finish it in time. The rest of his classes had been similarly disastrous.

  All in all, it had been a lousy day. Dave had hoped that work would go smoothly, but the entire shift at Wild West had been awful. At this point, with the rush in full gear and the assembler in a rage, he just wanted to go home.

  "Oh my God!" yapped the assembler. "You don't even have any rolls in the oven? What the hell've you been doing all afternoon?"

  "Hey!" hurled Dave, shooting around to glare at her. "I said you'll get your damn rolls, so shut the hell up!"

  The force of his anger surprised her, made her back off just a bit. "If you're just puttin' them in now," she growled, "I won't get them for another ten minutes!"

  "So tell the people they'll just have to wait!" cracked Dave, swinging open the top oven. "Take them their meals and tell them the rolls will be out in a minute!"

  "Easy for you to say," jabbed the assembler.

  "Three dozen!" shouted Dave, throwing the rack of rolls into the oven, then tearing open another bag. "I'm putting in three dozen, okay? You'll have enough rolls to last the rest of the night!"

  "Asshole!" hissed the assembler, but then she quit harassing him. As Dave loaded up trays of rolls, he heard her smacking platters around, venting her hostility on the innocent dinners. He heard her drop something metallic on the floor, and then she cursed and clomped off into the dining room.

  Though he felt some small relief when the assembler departed, Dave was still riled, and he too started slamming things around. Fuming and flushed, he pitched another tray of rolls into the oven, then ripped open another bag and dumped its contents on the counter. When a third tray was full of rolls, he swept it into the oven and heaved the door shut. Scowling, grinding his teeth, he hunched and brooded, felt a great pressure building in his gut. Looking over his shoulder, he saw customers waiting in line, heads bobbing above the partition separating them from the cooking area; scanning the length of the partition, he saw that there was no end in sight, no end to the crowd clogging the steakhouse.