Read Online Front Yard by Norman Draper - Free Book Online Page B

Maybe they needed some fresh blood to get things back on track.
    â€œAre you aware of our little tax problem?” asked Artis.
    â€œYessir. I’ve been telling you about it for as long as I can remember. I’m sorry you decided not to pay attention.”
    â€œThat’s not the kind of tone we should have to hear from an employee,” said Nimwell, blinking rapidly to fight back the tears of indignation. “Where’s the respect these days that employees used to show their employers?”
    Matthew shrugged.
    â€œHow much are we paying you, Matthew?” Artis asked.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYou heard the man,” said Nimwell. “How much do we over- pay you?”
    â€œUh, hmmm. Maybe sixteen hundred a month. About twenty thousand a year.”
    â€œThat’s too much!” barked Artis.
    â€œUm-hmm,” said Nimwell.
    â€œIt’s not that much,” Matthew said. “Especially for someone like me, who has the contacts and knows the market.”
    â€œAnd where is that getting us?” said Artis through clenched teeth. “We should be in a position to be the foremost retailer of Civil War and historic American memorabilia in the nation. Huh? It’s Mr. Scroggit and I who have to come up with all the big finds.”
    â€œMaybe you should pay your taxes.”
    â€œThere’s some more of that lip,” said Nimwell. “Stop it, please, with the lippy backtalk.”
    â€œI’d like to suggest a new salary deal for you, Matthew,” Artis said. “A hundred dollars a week, plus a ten-percent commission on whatever you sell. Maybe that’ll get your ass in gear.”
    â€œThat seems really fair,” Nimwell said.
    Matthew stared at them, his mouth agape. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    â€œNo joke,” said Artis. “Take it or leave it.” The bell on the door jingled, signaling the third customer in the four hours the store had been open.
    â€œLeave it,” said Matthew. “I’ll take care of this last customer, then I’m outta here. Maurice comes in at noon.”
    The Scroggit brothers looked at each other, stunned. They had expected their manager, disheartened by lagging sales and afraid of getting fired, to jump at their new offer. It had never occurred to them that he just might up and walk. And when he did, which it appeared would be in about five minutes, who would run the store?
    â€œOne of us has to check in at the store in Gable Oaks,” said Artis. “That should probably be me since I’m sort of the brains of the operation. You stay here and man the store for the rest of the day once Matthew takes off. You know how to operate a computerized cash register, right? And run credit cards?”
    Nimwell shrugged and forced a wan, tremulous smile.
    â€œOkay, whatever,” said Artis. “We’re gonna have to sell this place and file for bankruptcy anyway, so don’t sweat the customers too much. You’ll probably just end up twiddling your thumbs. You know what? That treasure deal Miss Price was talking about is looking better all the time.”
    Nimwell nodded furiously as Matthew put on his jacket and walked out, barely a minute before the constant jingling of the bell signaled that a busload of foreign tourists had just crossed the threshold.
    â€œGo get ’em, tiger,” said Artis as a dozen new prospective customers gawked at the display cases. “Just think, Miss Price is gonna make us millionaires. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to get to it.”
    Nimwell smiled and scampered over to make his first sale—a bullet-dented canteen that had once belonged to a major who served on the staff of Major General Lew Wallace at the battle of Shiloh.
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    Ten miles away, slumped over the walnut desk that served as the centerpiece of her cloistered office in the venerable Eamons Hall, Dr. Hilda Brockheimer stared at the foot-high pile of