knew when you might need it.
In the middle of the shop floor sat Jeff’s pet project: an old, sixteen-footracing scow that he had been meaning to fix up for the last five years. The boat, of course, had been purchased with one of the mystery checks. That check had bounced. Jeff still got the scow, though. Since the day they’d met in the third grade, the man could talk Cooper into damn near anything.
Jeff had put in all of eight or nine hours on the scow before he got bored with it, moved on to the next shiny object. But not a day went by when he didn’t talk about making it pristine, selling it for a huge profit. Jeff loved the thing. Cooper wondered if someone would buy it as-is. Maybe it could bring in enough to make that month’s payment on JBS’s only ship, the
Mary Ellen Moffett
.
Maybe, if anyone was buying. In this economy, no one was.
Through the window, he saw the building’s front door open. Jeff Brockman walked in, carrying a blue SCUBA tank under his left arm. A few brown, windblown leaves came in with him, one sticking to his heavy, shoulder-length hair of the same color. From his right hand dangled an overstuffed white plastic bag — take-out food.
Cooper forced himself to stay calm. A new tank? Maybe Jeff had found it. Maybe he hadn’t spent money they didn’t have on equipment they didn’t need.
Yeah, and maybe Cooper would suddenly find out he was a long-lost relative of Hugh Hefner and had just inherited the Playboy Mansion.
Jeff Brockman strode into the tiny office, blazing a smile that said
I totally hooked us up!
“My man,” he said. “Wait till you hear the deal I just scored.”
Cooper pointed to the open checkbook. “A deal you paid for with that?”
Jeff looked at the checkbook, drew in an apologetic hiss.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Sorry, dude. I know, I know, you told me a hundred times. I’ll fill in the stub thing right now.” He looked around for space on his desk to set the food. “The receipt’s in my pocket. I think. Or maybe I left it at the dive shop.”
Cooper stared, amazed. Jeff moved a stack of bills aside, cleared a space to set down the bag. Through the strained plastic, Cooper counted five containers — had to be enough food there to feed a half-dozen grown men. And the odor … Italian. Fuck if it didn’t smell delicious.
“It’s not about the stub,” Cooper said. “Well, yeah, it’s about that, too, but,
dude
, we don’t need a new tank!”
Jeff looked the part of rugged entrepreneur: the hair, the two-day stubble, the wide shoulders, and the blue eyes that made meeting girls at the bar so easy he didn’t even have to try.
He smiled. “Coop, buddy, I got a
great deal
. We’ll need to replace my tank in a couple of years anyway, so I actually
saved
us money.”
Cooper stood up, slapped his desk hard enough that the thick metal
thoomed
like a cheap gong.
“You don’t
save
money by
spending
it, Brock!”
Jeff’s good humor faded away. His expression hardened. They hung out together all day, most every day, and that familiarity made Cooper forget that Jeff had thirty pounds and four inches on him, made him forget that Jeff carried layers of muscle built over a lifetime of construction and demolition jobs, made him not really see the little, faded scars on Jeff’s face collected from the fights of his youth. That expression, though, made Cooper remember those things all too well.
“Coop, I own half of this company. I think I can take a little money to treat us once in a while, bro. I don’t need permission to write a check.”
“No, what you do need is enough
money in the checking account
to
cover the check
. I can’t believe you’d be so stupid.”
Jeff nodded. “Stupid, huh? Was I
stupid
when I convinced my brother to get you into that medical trial? Was I
stupid
when I somehow kept this business going while you were in the hospital for
six months
? Maybe it was just a miracle we didn’t go out of business, maybe it
In the middle of the shop floor sat Jeff’s pet project: an old, sixteen-footracing scow that he had been meaning to fix up for the last five years. The boat, of course, had been purchased with one of the mystery checks. That check had bounced. Jeff still got the scow, though. Since the day they’d met in the third grade, the man could talk Cooper into damn near anything.
Jeff had put in all of eight or nine hours on the scow before he got bored with it, moved on to the next shiny object. But not a day went by when he didn’t talk about making it pristine, selling it for a huge profit. Jeff loved the thing. Cooper wondered if someone would buy it as-is. Maybe it could bring in enough to make that month’s payment on JBS’s only ship, the
Mary Ellen Moffett
.
Maybe, if anyone was buying. In this economy, no one was.
Through the window, he saw the building’s front door open. Jeff Brockman walked in, carrying a blue SCUBA tank under his left arm. A few brown, windblown leaves came in with him, one sticking to his heavy, shoulder-length hair of the same color. From his right hand dangled an overstuffed white plastic bag — take-out food.
Cooper forced himself to stay calm. A new tank? Maybe Jeff had found it. Maybe he hadn’t spent money they didn’t have on equipment they didn’t need.
Yeah, and maybe Cooper would suddenly find out he was a long-lost relative of Hugh Hefner and had just inherited the Playboy Mansion.
Jeff Brockman strode into the tiny office, blazing a smile that said
I totally hooked us up!
“My man,” he said. “Wait till you hear the deal I just scored.”
Cooper pointed to the open checkbook. “A deal you paid for with that?”
Jeff looked at the checkbook, drew in an apologetic hiss.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Sorry, dude. I know, I know, you told me a hundred times. I’ll fill in the stub thing right now.” He looked around for space on his desk to set the food. “The receipt’s in my pocket. I think. Or maybe I left it at the dive shop.”
Cooper stared, amazed. Jeff moved a stack of bills aside, cleared a space to set down the bag. Through the strained plastic, Cooper counted five containers — had to be enough food there to feed a half-dozen grown men. And the odor … Italian. Fuck if it didn’t smell delicious.
“It’s not about the stub,” Cooper said. “Well, yeah, it’s about that, too, but,
dude
, we don’t need a new tank!”
Jeff looked the part of rugged entrepreneur: the hair, the two-day stubble, the wide shoulders, and the blue eyes that made meeting girls at the bar so easy he didn’t even have to try.
He smiled. “Coop, buddy, I got a
great deal
. We’ll need to replace my tank in a couple of years anyway, so I actually
saved
us money.”
Cooper stood up, slapped his desk hard enough that the thick metal
thoomed
like a cheap gong.
“You don’t
save
money by
spending
it, Brock!”
Jeff’s good humor faded away. His expression hardened. They hung out together all day, most every day, and that familiarity made Cooper forget that Jeff had thirty pounds and four inches on him, made him forget that Jeff carried layers of muscle built over a lifetime of construction and demolition jobs, made him not really see the little, faded scars on Jeff’s face collected from the fights of his youth. That expression, though, made Cooper remember those things all too well.
“Coop, I own half of this company. I think I can take a little money to treat us once in a while, bro. I don’t need permission to write a check.”
“No, what you do need is enough
money in the checking account
to
cover the check
. I can’t believe you’d be so stupid.”
Jeff nodded. “Stupid, huh? Was I
stupid
when I convinced my brother to get you into that medical trial? Was I
stupid
when I somehow kept this business going while you were in the hospital for
six months
? Maybe it was just a miracle we didn’t go out of business, maybe it
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