The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [75]
I got to the East Wing entrance and waited there for the janitor. He locked the door every day at 3:20. Only two of the school’s eight entrances remained unlocked after 3:30. And those only stayed open until four o’clock.
“Hey, Mac, how are you?” he said as he reached for his keys.
“I’m okay. Say, a friend is coming to visit me, so do you think you could leave this one open until 4:00 today?” I asked.
“Sure, no problem,” he said, and walked back down the hallway. He whistled some catchy tune that I recognized from somewhere.
Just like that. No questions asked. You don’t ask questions that don’t need to be answered. That’s rule number one when dealing with a business like mine. And the janitor seemed to understand that. He was by far the coolest adult I had ever met. Kids in most schools make fun of their janitors because it’s usually some creepy guy with gross hair, a funny smell, and a collection of bent spoons in his work closet. But our janitor is downright awesome.
I went inside the bathroom and sat in my office. Fred entered a few moments later. I heard him sit in one of the chairs across from the sink. It was three minutes until three thirty. I wasn’t sure if Staples would show. And if he did, could I go through with it?
The first question was answered just a minute later, when the door to the bathroom swung open. I heard heavy footsteps scuff across the dirty tile floor. Then I heard Fred’s voice.
“Staples? What are you doing here?”
Fred didn’t sound all that shocked to see Staples, though. You’d have thought he would sound terrified. But he didn’t. There was a silence and then Fred spoke again.
“Uh, Mac, Staples is here! Why is Staples here?”
I got up and stepped out of my office. Fred was still seated in his plastic chair and Staples stood by the sink a few feet away. They were both looking at me.
“Oh, Fred, I think you know why Staples is here,” I said.
Fred shook his head, “I don’t. I don’t know what—”
But Staples cut him off. “So I heard you finally want to accept my offer? Having problems with your business, are you?”
I looked at Staples with a blank face. I didn’t really feel all that afraid of him anymore. Because this time, for once, I actually did have the drop on him. This time I had the element of surprise.
“I guess you could say that,” I said, trying to sound calm, bored. “But I most definitely do not want to accept your offer.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then why am I here? I don’t like being jerked around, Christian.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like being jerked around either, Barry.”
He shook his head and took a step back. He looked so shocked that I knew his real name that I thought he might have a heart attack right there in my office.
“How? How do you know my name?” he demanded.
“All in due time,” I said. “First, I have an offer to make you. Well, it’s more of a demand than an offer. One: I want you out of my school forever. I don’t want to hear about any of my classmates placing a bet with one of your bookies again. Two: I don’t ever want to see you or any of your high school cronies near my friends ever again.”
Staples laughed. He had gone from scowling and confused to laughing in just a second’s time.
“So . . . so . . . .” He tried to talk but was too busy laughing.
I waited while he calmed down.
Eventually he composed himself enough to say, “So what exactly are you going to do if I refuse your offer?” When he said the word “offer,” he made bunny ears with two fingers from each of his hands and then curled his fingertips downward.
“Well, right now, as we speak, a few friends of mine are currently raiding the shed in your backyard. They’re going to kidnap your dog, search the