Free The Cut by Wil Mara

that. Now go on, get the hell—”
    Daimon handed over the driving directions. “The team sent this to me two days ago.”
    The antagonist stared hard into his victim’s eyes, clearly unhappy that he was being argued with. Then he took the sheet and studied it carefully. He noted the Giants logo at the top, the formality of the language. It certainly seemed genuine. But then there was also the fax number printed at the very top, along with the words “ShopRite Store 557.” And he didn’t know anything about this kid. No, he wasn’t ready to stop busting his balls yet.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he said without looking up.
    â€œDaimon Foster.”
    â€œYeah? Never heard of you. Wait here.” He took his cell phone from the holster on his belt and walked a short distance away. The conversation took less than a minute. At one point, Daimon saw the guy’s shoulders droop, as if he were disappointed that he couldn’t go back and give the little punk a good thumping. He refolded the phone with a snap and replaced it in its holster. He was clearly in no hurry to return.
    â€œUh, look,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know we were expecting you. No one told me.”
    The change in personality was so abrupt it was startling. One minute a tough-as-nails guardian of the inner circle, the next a servile, bootlicking subordinate. It was almost a disgusting thing to see, and Daimon surprised himself by feeling a little sorry for the guy.
    â€œI’m Ted Brodie,” the guard continued, putting a hand out.
    â€œDaimon Foster,” Daimon said again, guessing Brodie didn’t catch the name the first time.
    â€œNice to meet you. I’m one of the Giants’ operations people. Tonight I’m on parking lot duty, as you can see.”
    Daimon nodded, wondering what kind of damage is done to the soul of a man in his fifties who spends his days bowing and scraping to people half his age with roughly five to fifty times his income.
    â€œThis is where I should be, isn’t it?”
    â€œHuh? Oh, yes. Yes.” Brodie hurried over and finished the job of pulling the sawhorse aside. “Sorry. Come on in, please.”
    â€œAnd after I park I report to Donald Blumenthal in Chadwick Hall, is that right?”
    â€œYes, that’s correct.”
    â€œOkay, thanks.” Just before he got back into the car, he asked, “Do I park anywhere in particular?”
    â€œNo, wherever you like.”
    â€œRight.”
    He got back in and drove through. A strange and unexpected sensation followed—he had pierced the first layer of the league. A moment ago he was on Route 118, a thoroughfare accessible by anyone. It was still part of the public domain, so to speak. Now he was in a Privileged Area; limited access, highly restricted. He already had one person treating him like royalty, and in this small way he felt like he was no longer on the outside looking in. He was in. He saw Brodie replace the sawhorse in the rearview mirror. This somehow expanded his excitement— closing and locking the door behind me.
    But the ecstasy didn’t last long. He might have crossed that first border, but he realized there were plenty more to go when he puttered past vehicles whose sticker prices dwarfed his current annual salary at the supermarket. The tingle down his spine vanished as swiftly as it had come.
    He saw several open spots, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull into any of them. One was between a gleaming black Mercedes-Benz and a Range Rover. Another was next to a Hummer H3. I can’t park here, he thought. I just can’t.
    He finally found what he considered to be the right place. At the northeast corner of the lot, there was a lone space next to a pile of gravel that looked like a miniature mountain. Probably dumped there for use in a future landscaping project. There were several openings on either side of it.