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  Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he snapped his head around to see Billy standing beside him.

  "Hey, man," Billy said soberly, a look of friendly concern on his face. "Take it easy, all right?"

  "Yeah, yeah," sighed Dave, shaking his head.

  "Don't get so excited, okay?" advised Billy. "You're gettin' way too uptight, y'know?"

  Dave released a long breath, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know," he admitted, placing his hands on the counter, letting his head sag forward. "I'm just having a really bad day, and this is starting to get to me."

  "Hey, you'll have this," said Billy, patting Dave on the back. "Life sucks and then you die, right? Just get through it, okay?"

  "Okay," Dave said halfheartedly.

  "I mean it," Billy said laughingly. "Hang in there, bud."

  "Okay," snorted Dave, actually managing a small grin.

  "Okay then," said Billy. "Now get your ass movin' and get me some more bakes, man."

  For an instant, Billy flashed his mischievous grin in all its brilliance, his lean, merry face looking for all the world like that of a leprechaun. Then, he again whacked Dave on the back and returned to the broiler, spinning his tongs on one finger like a gunslinger twirling his six-shooter.

  A bit calmer after his friend's encouraging words, Dave resumed his work. Again pulling on the heavy mitts, he opened the top oven and slid out the lowermost rack of rolls. Though they were still quite pale, at least they were shaded with light brown, so they were passable. Removing the tray from the oven, he carried it to the assemblers' station, then opened a drawer there and heaved the rolls into it. Just as he did so, Cindy Stasko, the girl who had pestered him about the rolls, came back from the dining room; without saying a word, she hustled to the drawer and started yanking out handfuls of the rolls, throwing them into plastic baskets for the customers.

  Glad that he'd pacified Cindy, at least for the moment, Dave headed back to the fry station.

  At that point, just as he was girding himself to weather the rest of the rush, he felt another hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mr. Wyland, the executive manager.

  "Um, Dave?" said Mr. Wyland, an unreadable expression on his round face. "Do you have a minute?"

  "Well, not really," Dave said tentatively. "I'm kind of busy right now."

  "Well, I need to talk to you for a minute. What if I got someone to cover your station?" Though Fred Wyland was only in his late thirties, his hair was silver. Aside from the color of his hair, he really didn't look old; he was short and slightly pudgy, though he didn't have a great belly like Mr. Martin, and his general appearance was that of a man in his thirties. The silver hair seemed odd, unnatural, as if the premature lightening had been triggered by some terrible, secret experience in Mr. Wyland's past.

  "Who can you get to cover for me?" asked Dave, wondering what was so urgent that Mr. Wyland couldn't wait to tell him about it. "Everybody's tied up, aren't they?"

  "I'll bring Mitch out of the dishroom," said the manager, absentmindedly scratching his left earlobe. "You've got things pretty well caught-up, don't you?"

  "Well, not really," shrugged Dave. "I'm kind'a backed-up, actually."

  "Hm," said Mr. Wyland, glancing at the fry station. "I see." For an instant, the boss looked around the cooking area, apparently considering whether it would be wise to substitute Mitch for Dave. Finally, he nodded decisively and returned his gaze to Dave. "I'll only be keeping you a minute or two," he declared. "How about if you go tell Mitch to come out, and then meet me in the office?"

  "All right," said Dave. "I'll be in in a minute, Mr. Wyland."

  "Um, good," approved the boss. "Thanks." With that, he turned his back to Dave and headed down the line, pausing only for a second to peep over Billy's shoulder at the broiler.

  Baffled by the mysterious summons, Dave grabbed a rag and quickly swabbed the greasy counter of the fry station. He wiped his hands, which were also greasy, and searched his mind for a clue to the reason for Mr. Wyland's impromptu meeting. It was certainly unusual for a manager to call an employee into the office during a hectic supper rush, when all able bodies were needed to handle the influx of customers.

  Pondering Wyland's strange invitation, Dave notified Billy of the situation, then went to the dishroom and told Mitch to take over as fry cook. When he finally entered the managers' office, he still hadn't figured out what exactly Wyland might have to say to him.

  "Um, close the door, would you?" said Mr. Wyland, his expression noncommittal.

  Frowning, Dave pulled the door shut. He remained standing in front of it, mainly because there was nowhere to sit; the office was tiny, little more than a closet, and Mr. Wyland had claimed the only chair.

  "Did you get Mitch to come out front?" asked the manager, leaning back in the black swivel chair, folding his hands in his lap.

  "Uh-huh," nodded Dave, sliding his hands into his pockets.

  "Good," said Fred Wyland. "He's coming along pretty well, don't you think?"

  "Sure," said Dave.

  "He just needs a few more hours at the fry station," said the boss, and then he paused and looked down at his hands.

  "So what's up?" asked Dave.

  Mr. Wyland hesitated, rocked his chair back a bit further. The swivel upon which the seat was mounted creaked softly. "Well," said the manager, eyes still trained on his hands. "I, um, heard something, and I was hoping you could clarify it for me."

  "What did you hear?" asked Dave.

  "Um, well," continued Wyland. "It's something that surprised me, and I wanted to hear your side of the story."

  "So what is it?" pressed Dave.

  "I, um, don't want you to think that I'm out to get you," declared the boss. "You're one of the best people we've got."

  "Thanks," said Dave, still frowning, wishing that Wyland would get to the point.

  "It's just that, well, I can't ignore this." Tilting the chair forward, Mr. Wyland lifted his gaze from his hands, looked directly at Dave. From the expression on his face, Dave could tell that the manager was as uncomfortable as he was.

  "What do you mean?" Dave asked tensely.

  "I was just, um...wondering," said Mr. Wyland. "Have you ever taken any chocolate milk out of the walk-in?"

  The question hit Dave like a wrecking ball. For an instant, he just froze; though he managed to maintain a poker face for the boss, he was absolutely flabbergasted.

  Had he heard correctly? Had Mr. Wyland actually asked him about the "black gold"? How could he know? Better yet, what could Dave say? Should he lie? Should he confess? How much did the manager know?

  Clarion alarms whooping in his head, Dave struggled to collect his wits and figure out what to tell Mr. Wyland. In lieu of a brilliant inspiration, he decided to stall. "Uh, why do you ask?" he said.

  "Well, for a while now, the other managers and I have been noticing some inventory discrepancies." Unfolding his hands, Mr. Wyland moved them to the black armrests of the chair. "Um, it seemed like we were going through more of certain items than we were selling...like chocolate milk, for one. At first, we just thought we were miscounting, but the discrepancies kept showing up. We, um, figured that someone on the crew, or more than one person, was helping themselves to the chocolate milk." Pausing, he narrowed his eyes and stared intently at Dave, as if trying to judge the degree of his guilt. "We kept an eye out, but we could never catch anyone taking anything they weren't supposed to. Then, we started asking around, and, um, your name came up."

  "Really?" frowned Dave, keeping his voice level only with great effort.

  "Your name was mentioned," Wyland said with a slight shrug. "Um, someone told me they'd heard you say you were drinking chocolate milk in the walk-in."

  "Who said this?" asked Dave, his bewildered frown deepening.

  "One of your fellow employees," said Mr. Wyland, his eyes wandering to the cluttered counter beside him, the beige Formica shelf which served as a desk. "I'd rather not say who it was, but I think they're p
retty reliable."

  Dave started to say something, then stopped. He shook his head once and sighed, looked down at the floor. He couldn't believe it: someone had turned him in, violated the unspoken code of the steakhouse, the unwritten pact of mutual protection. It didn't seem possible; in all the years that he'd worked at Wild West, no one had ever spilled the beans to management, told the bosses that anyone was snacking on the sly. "Honor among thieves," Larry Smith had said, and that was exactly how it had been; everyone had their hands in the cookie jar at one time or another, and they never betrayed anyone else because they didn't want to ruin things for themselves.

  Remembering his discussion with Larry and Billy the night before made him feel doubly disgusted. Without reservation, he'd boasted about the wonderful honor system at the steakhouse, bragged about the things he'd gotten away with, defended the trustworthiness of the people with whom he worked-and now, all of a sudden, the system had disintegrated, and someone had betrayed his trust. He felt like a fool, an authentic simpleton; he felt as if he'd jinxed himself by doing all that cocky boasting.

  He wondered who had been cruel enough to double-cross him like this.

  "So who told you all this stuff?" he asked.

  "It doesn't matter," said Wyland. "What matters is if it's true or not." He paused, waiting for Dave to comment, but Dave remained silent. "Um, I hope you understand," said the manager. "We just can't let you guys drink the chocolate milk. We pay a lot more for it than we do for soda, so we can't afford to let the employees have it for free."

  "I know," Dave said quietly.

  "Um, I don't want to make a big deal out of this. I'm not out to punish anyone." Propping his elbows on the armrests of the chair, the boss raised his hands to form a steeple, fingertips touching. "All I want is for whoever's drinking the milk to stop it."

  Dave nodded, felt a cold stream of sweat crawl down his side. Considering the circumstances, he still looked remarkably calm, as if he were listening to Mr. Wyland describe a new procedure, or a new entree the steakhouse would be serving. Internally, he was an absolute wreck, worrying about what would happen, beating himself up for getting into this mess, wondering if a fib or the truth would be more likely to get him off the hook.

  "If I find out who's been drinking the chocolate milk, I promise I won't punish them," offered Wyland. "There won't be any, um, suspensions, and I won't dock anyone's pay. I won't schedule them any less, and I won't treat them any differently." The look in the manager's eyes was sober and sincere, open and guileless. Wyland seemed to be laying all his cards on the table, revealing his intentions without making false vows. "I won't even make any notations in the person's file. As long as it stops immediately, I see no reason to write up a report."

  Dave said nothing, just stood and listened. He felt as if he could trust Wyland; the manager had always treated him fairly in the past, and his current sincerity truly seemed genuine. Then again, Dave supposed that there could be a first time for everything...and this could be the first time that Wyland would lie to him and go back on his word.

  "Dave, as far as I'm concerned, you're a valuable employee," said Mr. Wyland, nodding approvingly. "I, um, know you'll be leaving eventually, but I'm not ready to lose you yet. If you've been taking chocolate milks, I'd like to know, and I'd like you to stop it, but I won't pursue it any further."

  Heart hammering, stomach wringing, Dave looked at Mr. Wyland, then down at the floor. For a moment, the little office was silent, and Dave had a feeling that the boss had said his piece; he sensed that Fred Wyland had finished stating his position, and now was waiting for an all-important answer. There was no more time for delays or evasion, no time to consider consequences and debate the merits of different responses. One way or another, truth or lie, he had to commit himself and hope for the best.

  "Well," Dave said finally, lifting his eyes to meet the boss' gaze. "I'm not the only one who's done it, but it's true I've taken chocolate milks."

  "You're not the only one?" said Wyland, frowning slightly.

  Dave hesitated. Naturally, the boss had latched onto that clue, that revelation Dave had made in a last-ditch effort to lessen his own guilt. He quickly realized that he shouldn't have said it, because it might just make things more difficult for him now. "Uh, no," he fumbled. "There're other people besides me. I really couldn't tell you who, though."

  "Why is that?" asked the boss, his brow still furrowed.

  "It's...well, I just don't want to say." Shifting his feet, Dave darted his eyes from Mr. Wyland to the wall, then back again. He thought furiously, trying to come up with the right words to convince the manager not to press him for details. No matter what, Dave wouldn't turn in his friends; though someone in the Wild West family had betrayed him, he wouldn't respond by becoming a turncoat himself.

  "Other people, huh?" said Wyland, folding his hands in his lap.

  "Well, yeah," said Dave. "I guess it's just been like a habit, y'know? I guess everyone thought it was sort of okay. Like, there was the company policy, but no one thought the managers were too worried about it."

  "Um, I see," the boss said thoughtfully. "Maybe we've been a little lax about making sure everyone remembers the rules."

  Dave shrugged. He couldn't tell how the meeting would conclude, but at least Wyland didn't seem angry, and that was a good sign.

  "Maybe it would help if we handed out memos every now and then," mulled the boss, staring at his hands. "Maybe once a month or so, we could give everyone a copy of the rules. We have such a high turnover rate here, it would probably be smart to make sure all new employees keep track of company policy."

  Doing his best to remain calm, Dave simply nodded. Cool streams of sweat continued to trickle down his sides.

  "What do you think?" asked Wyland, gazing intently at Dave. "Do you think memos would help?"

  "Yeah," said Dave. "I think it would clear things up. It would give everyone a better idea of what they can and cannot do."

  "Mm-hm," nodded Wyland. "That's what we'll do then." Reaching up in a familiar gesture, he brushed his silver bangs over his forehead, swept them to one side so the part in his hair was more defined. "So," he said, summoning an odd little smile. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me who else has been taking chocolate milk?"

  "Uh-huh," Dave answered without hesitation. Smiling, the manager sighed and shook his head. "Okay then. Would you at least pass the word along and tell those people that I want them to stop?"

  "Okay," agreed Dave.

  "Tell them I'm serious about this, because I am," said Wyland. "From now on, if we catch anyone taking anything they're not supposed to, they're out the door."

  "I'll tell them," said Dave, pulling his hands from his pockets.

  "Um, I guess I better let you get back to work," said the boss.

  "Okay," nodded Dave, turning to reach for the doorknob.

  "Anyway, I appreciate your honesty," Wyland said sincerely. "I don't think many people would've told me the truth in this situation."

  One hand on the doorknob, Dave shrugged sheepishly.

  "Um, like I told you, there won't be any report made in your file. Just don't do it again, okay?"

  "Okay," said Dave, his expression severe, conveying determination to stick to the rules.

  "Thanks," said Mr. Wyland.

  With that, Dave opened the office door and emerged from the crucible, the place of testing. Pulling the door shut behind him, he released a deep breath, paused for an instant as a powerful shudder rippled through him.

  Dazed and disturbed, he slowly walked from the office to the line, heading for the fry cook station. Billy Bristol saw him coming and stepped from the broiler to intercept him.

  "Hey," Billy said quietly, looking concerned. "What's the matter, man? What happened in there?"

  "I got busted," Dave said sullenly, keeping his voice low.

  "Huh?" frowned Billy. "What for?"

  "Black gold," muttered Dave, shaking his head. "Somebody told Fred I was ta
king it."

  "What?" exclaimed Billy. "You're kiddin'!"

  "Nope," sighed Dave. "Someone told him I've been drinking the chocolate milk."

  "Holy shit," jolted Billy, grimacing with disbelief. "Who? Who told him?"

  "Beats the hell outta' me," shrugged Dave. "Fred wouldn't say."

  "Man! What'd you tell him?"

  "I admitted it," said Dave.

  "Why'd you do that?" snapped Billy.

  "I don't know. I thought it might be better if I told him the truth."

  "If he didn't catch you in the act, he had no way of pinning it on you!" Billy whispered fervently. "All he knew was what somebody told him, and he can't do anything to you based on that! You should've denied it!"

  "Yeah, well, I didn't," mumbled Dave. "It doesn't matter, because he didn't do anything to me, anyway. He said he wasn't going to punish me. He just wants me to stop taking milks, and he wants me to pass it along to everybody that he's gonna' be on the lookout for anyone else taking them."

  "Geez," said Billy, wagging his head. "You got lucky."

  "Tell me about it," said Dave. "He said if he catches anybody, they'll be out the door."

  "Son of a bitch," muttered Billy, angrily clicking his tongs together. "You have any idea who went to Fred?"

  "Nope," Dave answered with a sigh.

  "Have you really pissed anybody off lately?" asked Billy.

  "I don't know," replied Dave, raising his hands in frustration, then letting them fall heavily against his sides. "I mean, I can't think of anyone in particular."

  "What about Cindy? She was pretty bent outta' shape over those rolls."

  "I don't think so," Dave said as he considered the possibility. "She hasn't been here that long, y'know? I doubt she even knows I ever took any chocolate milks."

  "Hm," grunted Billy. "I'm gonna' have to find out who it was."

  "Yeah," nodded Dave. "I'd like to know who the jerk is, too."