Night Shift (Book 1, the Night Shift series)

Chapter Forty-one

A waiter in the long blue apron and gold bow tie refilled Daniel's coffee cup. "Do you need more milk?" he asked.

"No thanks," Daniel said. "I take it black."

The waiter refilled Mr. Travis's cup, then took away their finished plates of eggs Benedict.

"And this area," Mr. Travis said, pointing to what Daniel guessed was the Confectionery, "was stage right, close to the wings, while the main stage extended to the middle of the ground floor."

"That far?" Daniel took a sip of hot coffee. "I had no idea it was so huge."

"Imagine the rows of blue velvet seats going almost to the last jewelry counter. Then there was the balcony and the private boxes along the sides." Mr. Travis looked at the blueprint as if a 3-D image of the theatre was rising from the paper.

Daniel squinted, trying to focus. The lines made no sense to him, but he knew Mary would pore over them until she figured it out. "Do you think I could photocopy these?"

"Of course." Mr. Travis sat back, looking pleased. "But if you want, you can keep them. I have copies."

"You have no idea how important these are," he said, rolling up the blueprints.

"You and I are a lot alike, I think."

Daniel answered with a snort. "Except I don't want to change Willard's into a shopping zoo."

"Neither do I," Mr. Travis said. "In fact, I feel quite the opposite. I see it becoming a shopping oasis, something elegant but modern, more streamlined, with greater efficiency."

"It sounds like you're talking about a car."

"The store has to act like a machine, or else it will flounder. Look around the neighbourhood; Burlington Coat Factory, Frederick's of Hollywood, T.J. Maxx—these department stores specialize in marked-down high-end labels, usually seconds straight from the factories. People don't want to pay full price for anything these days. Barney's Co-Op is making a killing."

Daniel imaged Ruth Ann would have no problem spouting off business statistics to defend Willard's, but he was clueless and had no comeback. He stayed quiet, unable to refute the facts.

Mr. Travis continued. "An upscale store like Willard's belongs on 5th Avenue, but it's too small to compete. The grand staircase is lovely, but it takes up valuable retail space. The window displays bring lots of crowds to the front sidewalk, but they need to be running into the store, not pausing to look at the pretty mannequins."

Daniel could almost taste the eggs Benedict coming back up. He concentrated on counting the crumbs on the linen tablecloth. Mr. Travis added a spoonful of sugar to his coffee, content to let the silence linger. Daniel breathed in through his nose a few times. He had to say something. "It's not all about profit," he mumbled.

"You're absolutely right. It's about survival. And without the proper upgrades, Willard's will simply cease to exist." Mr. Travis played with the coffee spoon, clinking it against the mug. "How would you feel if you could never work here again?"

He swallowed, thinking of his upcoming resignation.

Mr. Travis pushed his coffee away and hit Daniel with a stare. "When a store loses profit, the first thing management does to recoup is redundancies. I understand you were just hired...but suppose you did keep your job. It's still only a matter of time before the store closes for good."

"You're lying."

Mr. Travis shook his head. "Trust me. I've seen it happen countless times. What I'm proposing to Mr. Hadley and the shareholders is to keep the original feel and style of Willard's but make it updated. Fix the elevator, repair the plaster, put in air conditioning. Because the alternative is—"

"I get it," Daniel interrupted. His eyes toured the restaurant. It looked perfect to him, but maybe it was better to embrace the changes if it meant keeping the store open. If the Muhlenberg Branch Public Library could be renovated with its classic architecture intact, maybe a few upgrades were...just what Willard's needed.

"You have to admit, I make a sound argument," Mr. Travis said. "Mr. Oliver is desperately clinging to sentiment. He'd let the whole store crumble on top of himself before he saw reason."

Daniel noticed a handful of waiters had gathered close to the kitchen door and were watching his table. He had an uneasy sensation. "Why do you care so much about what I think?" he asked Mr. Travis. "I'm only a night guard."

Mr. Travis lowered his voice. "I believe in thorough research, Daniel. There's a reason I spoke with you in particular the first time Mr. Hadley gave me a tour of Willard's."

Daniel glanced at the elevator, wishing he could escape this conversation. The eggs Benedict felt like a lump in his gut. "And why's that?" he finally asked.

"I know you have a special connection with Mr. Oliver, and I'm hoping you can persuade him to see things our way."

"Special connection?"

"Mr. Oliver has worked here for almost forty years. And in that whole time, do you know how many potential security guards he's interviewed?"

Daniel shook his head.

"Only one," Mr. Travis said. "You."

A coolness traveled down Daniel's spine, sending a shiver over his skin. "That's it?" he tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. He pushed himself away from the table and stood on shaking legs. "I think I should go," he stammered. "I'm overtired," he said.

"My apologies." Mr. Travis took out his BlackBerry. "Let me call you a taxi, it's on me."

Daniel managed to grab his backpack and get to the sidewalk, where a cab was waiting for him. Mr. Travis' words tumbled over again in his mind. Mr. Oliver is desperately clinging to sentiment.

Everything Mr. Oliver had ever said replayed with a warped meaning: using his full name as if to tease him, talking about protecting the store, and the other night, how he was crying to Mr. Willard's picture. I don't know what the plan is, I don't know what to do next.

Daniel thought he was confused, but now he realized his mistake. Mr. Oliver wasn't confused or afraid—he was desperate.

Daniel slumped in the backseat of the taxi, white faced and shaking. "And a desperate man," he whispered, "Fears nothing."