Page 15 of The Last One to Let You Down

Tom stripped off his personal protective equipment, finished mopping up, and anxiously watched the clock. Junior’s contact would be here soon, and Tom had too much nervous energy to sit still. He went ahead and brought two cases of formaldehyde to the end of the hallway and set them on an empty stretcher.

Tom assumed the contact would come through the flower delivery door into the garage as he had before, and he propped open the hallway door. He wheeled the stretcher into the garage, dropping down each end a few notches so he could sit. This was the absolute worst part because anyone could walk right in and see him here with two giant crates of embalming fluid.

Scott or Bosco or whoever was on night call could come in at any moment if they had a removal. Maybe they wouldn’t ask what he was up to, but Gerald and Mr. Crosby were both known to pop in during the evenings to check on things, and they would certainly have questions for what the hell Tom was doing with the formaldehyde.

Tom couldn’t stop tapping his foot, his gut twisting up tighter with every passing minute, and he jumped right out of his skin when the flower door finally opened.

But it wasn’t Junior’s contact.

It wasCypress.

“What are you doing here?” Tom blurted out.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Cypress said, holding out a large standing spray full of lush roses. “It would appear that I’m delivering flowers. I do that, you know.”

“But it’s so late…” Tom gulped as he hopped up from the stretcher. “You, uh, you should really go home.”

“Mr. Crosby requested these personally, and I had a funny little feeling you might be here working late,” Cypress explained as he set the stand up next to the door. “He actually called me to apologize for Gerald being such a peach earlier—”

“Cypress,” Tom cut in quickly, “you really need to go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Frowning deeply, Cypress advanced toward Tom and intently scanned over his face. He zeroed right in on his busted lip, and his eyes narrowed.

What was that? Anger? Concern? Tom couldn’t read his expression, and he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t lie to Cypress, and he sure as hell couldn’t tell him the truth.

“Hey,” Cypress murmured, reaching out to gently touch Tom’s chin, “what happened to you? Are you okay?”

“I’m so not okay,” Tom whispered hurriedly, feeling exposed by such a simple question. He could hear Mrs. Dresser screaming again, and he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to keep selling formaldehyde for that bastard, Junior. He wanted it all to stop.

Hearing the flower door starting to open again, Tom reached for Cypress’s arm. “Shit! Come on. You can’t be here.”

“What the—!” Cypress was startled as Tom pushed him into the hallway.

“Please!” Tom pleaded urgently, shutting the door right in his face. He turned around in a panic as the contact walked in, and he tried to smile.

“You look like shit,” the contact said. He was an older man, white, and he always wore very thick glasses.

“Thanks,” Tom mumbled, gesturing to the cases. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Well, here you go.”

“Looks good,” the contact said, reading the labels on the boxes. “Thirty index, huh? That’s some really strong stuff.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Reaching into his pocket, the contact offered a stack of cash. “Tell Junior we appreciate it.”

“Sure.” Tom took the money and shoved it into his back pocket. He felt dirty even touching it.

“A pleasure doing business with you.” The contact smirked, picking up the boxes and slipping back out the door without another word.

Instantly relieved to see him go, Tom turned around to face the hallway door. Now he had to think up something fast to try and explain to Cypress what was going on. He gulped loudly when he saw the door wasn’t closed all the way, spying Cypress peeking out at him.

Well, shit.

Opening the door fully, Tom asked anxiously, “Did you see anything?”