Naomi took a final tour of the store, stood before her open changing room locker, gathered her things, and surveyed the employee lounge. It was a little past the end of 3rd shift, the time when insomniacs and early risers mingled, the former anxious to go and the latter anxious to get going. The two things they had in common were coffee and energy drinks. She got third shift because the first and second shift supervisors were afraid of her, the store populace went down about a third overnight, and she could pretty much do what she pleased.
The lounge – not so much a lounge as a high-priced cafeteria with a “commercial free” company video feed of good and bad employee behavior. One of the guys from automotive gave the screen the finger. A few others laughed – was industrailly antiseptically homey; neutral colors, comfortably uncomfortable couches, tables, and chairs, and all from the Damaged-in-Shipping containers out back of the store.
Naomi wondered when she’d appear in the “bad employee” videos. She closed her locker and spun the dial. Pitiful. Anybody could break in with a sharp yank.
But right now her concern was her absent teammate. “Anybody seen Annabelle?”
“Check with HR. If she clocked in, she’s here.”
She hadn’t.
The kindly grandmother type in HR typed on her keyboard then looked at Naomi over the top of her readers. “You’ll need to talk to her manager, Ms. Dillinger.”
Naomi went back out to the floor and cornered her latest manager, a skinny, older woman who pulled her hair back into a bun so tight Naomi considered it a cheap replacement for botox and plastic surgery. “Did Annabelle’s shift change?”
“She hasn’t been back since the detergent spill.”
The kindly grandmother type in HR reluctantly wrote down Annabelle’s phone number and address address for Naomi. “You won’t tell anybody, will you dear? I need this job.”
Naomi smiled. “You’re safe, Mrs. …” Naomi searched for a nametag and finally caught sight of an opened bill the woman tried to hide under her hand. “Lane.” Naomi cocked her head. “Mrs. Lane?”
A tear created a path in the old woman’s blush. “Yes?”
She studied the woman’s face, probably seeing her for the first time, and noticed the jaw line, the set of the cheeks, the brow.
Although old, the woman still carried the family facial features. “Are you related to Briggs Lane?”
The woman bowed her head. “Yes.”
“Isn’t he one of Boston’s Homegrown Billionaires?”
Mrs. Lane’s voice broke but she recovered quickly. “I wouldn’t know. I see his name in the papers sometimes.”
Naomi glanced at the open bill again. “May I?”
Mrs. Lane lifted her hand. Naomi saw “Overdue” stamped in large red letters across the top. She picked it up and read the amount. About ten dollars more than her weekly take home. “HR can transfer my paycheck to another employee if I sign off on it, right?”
Mrs. Lane’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know. I’ve never had that request before.”
“Where do you live, Ms. Lane?”
“The North End.”
Naomi pulled back. “The North End? Isn’t it expensive living up there?”
“A nice policewoman owns the building. It’s been in her family for years. She lets me live there. All I have to do is pay the utilities.”
Naomi pulled back. “Annette Funicello?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right.” She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. “Cuccello.”
“You know Marie?”
“A friend invited me there for lunch today. Or dinner. Not sure which.”
“Oh, you’re lucky. I’ll bet she’s making pizzas. Sometimes she makes them and brings a slice or two to everybody in the building.”
Naomi nodded. Thank god there were kind hearts out there. “Then you’re Annabelle’s neighbor? I don’t know that area. You live close to her?”
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