My business partner poured 420 pounds of quick-setting concrete directly into the engine bay and cargo bed of my delivery truck because he claimed it "blocked his view of the lake harbor" from our...
I walked into the back filing room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating stacks of invoices and ledger books. Sammy Pryor, Gerald’s twenty-two-year-old clerk, sat hunched over a desk, his fingers flying across the keys of a manual typewriter, clacking out shipping invoices.
I laid the yellow paper flat on his desk, pushing it across the worn wood until it was directly under his nose.
Sammy looked at the paper. Then he looked at me, his eyes wide and unfocused. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly gray. He slowly pushed his chair back.
He buried his face in his hands and began to shake, his shoulders trembling with silent sobs.
“I didn’t know, Mr. Hollis,” Sammy choked out, the words muffled by his hands, tears running down his nose and onto his starched shirt collar. “I swear to God I didn’t know he was going to do that to the Dodge! He told me he was just going to have Thomas drain the gas tank so you couldn’t start it! He said it was a prank!”
“Where are the real ledger books, Sammy?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Each word was carefully chosen, each syllable heavy with a quiet menace that surprised even myself.
Sammy lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and fearful. He fumbled with a key on his chain, unlocked the bottom drawer of the large metal safe in the corner, and pulled out a thick leather binder. Its pages were filled with neat, precise entries.
“He’s been stealing from the defense billing for six months,” Sammy confessed, his voice trembling. “Inflated invoices. Phantom shipments. He’s been using the money to pay off Inspector Dunbar’s gambling debts so Dunbar would help him squeeze you out of the company.”
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