Page 13 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Hazardous waste is being shipped out to God-knows-where on the strength of a few signatures.Ben’ssignatures, ostensibly,on every single document. Someone inside Whitaker Seafood made sure of that.
Colleagues who’ve worked there longer than he’s been alive, senior staff who already think the owner’s kid doesn’t deserve the seat he’s been handed. If he starts pointing fingers, he’ll look paranoid. Desperate. It’ll destroy any shred of authority he has left.
He pictures the faces around the table at the supervisor’s meeting today. The forced smiles, the edge of condescension curling at the corners of their mouths.The kid’s out of his depth.
The problem is, they’re not wrong. Ben very much is.
He’s either the idiot who approved a contract with a fly-by-night waste vendor, or the idiot who can’t handle a real crisis his first week in charge without being rescued.
Back in the Jeep, Ben cranks the heat but he can’t stop shaking, the snow outside growing thicker, the sky turning gray behind the trees. He spins the wheel hard as he backs out of the parking spot. The binder slides over the passenger seat with a thump, like even gravity is telling him not to look away.
What’s left?
Do nothing at all. That’s option one, and it’s suicide by silence. Wait for regulators or activists or human error to blow this up. Probably destroy the plant’s reputation. Definitely destroy Ben’s.
Option two is to try Kent again. Except it’s crystal clear that even if he’s nicer about it than most, he doesn’t take this seriously. He’d go to Dad and Dad would be furious he’d heard it second hand. He’d start thinking that Ben didn’t look like leadership material.
The rule has always been simple, don’t come with a problem unless you’re already holding the solution. Which means option three, go to Dad himself, will only get Ben to the same outcome quicker: watching the door to his future slam shut in real time.
Dad will listen, sure, and he might even believe that Ben wasn’t dumb enough to sign those papers himself, but he’ll also know Ben crumbled under pressure.
Panic curdles into clarity. Those are all the sanctioned channels and they all lead to the same place, Ben flattened, credibility first.
Which leaves… nothing.
Ben coasts to the shoulder, hazards ticking. Snow hisses under the tires. He feels like he’s trapped in a sealed box, the air growing thinner by the second.
Think.
Who isn’t in the box?
Jackson James.
The idea flashes, bright and dangerous. Ben barely knows the man. They’ve had one conversation, an interview that left Ben more rattled than reassured. But he’d asked about their waste practices. He wasn’t just getting under Ben’s skin. He knew something and he wanted the same answers Ben did.
Jackson isn’t loyal to Whitaker Seafood. He certainly isn’t worried about the approval of Ben’s father. It’s risky. But he notices everything, digs for answers, and doesn’t seem to care who he makes uncomfortable in the process. Exactly the qualities that scare Ben…and exactly the qualities he needs to fix this.
Jackson James might blow everything up right now, but on this particular evening, that seems better than sitting around waiting for the boom.
Chapter 11
Jackson
There are two bars within walking distance of Jackson’s apartment. The first is The Rudder & Rose, a cozy little lounge with moody lighting, soft jazz, and craft cocktails mixed by bartenders who majored in comparative literature. Jackson usually pops in at least once a week for a quiet, civilized drink.
Tonight, though, he bypasses sophistication entirely and pushes through the inexplicably sticky door of Salty Seadogs, his glasses fogging instantly. Salty’s, as it’s known by the locals, is a dive, with neon beer signs flickering unevenly and a jukebox braying songs about trucks and heartbreak on constant rotation. The air smells like last night’s spilled lager and tomorrow’s regret. This is where the factory workers and fishermen go after shifts, and Jackson hopes, with enough liquid loosening in them, someone might tell him something he can actually use.
Of course, the conversation he’d like to have isn’t here. It’s back with Ben Whitaker, asking some direct, uncomfortable questions and maybe getting some actual answers, rather than carefully scripted corporate lines. Jackson snorts. Ben’s the heir apparent, and all good intentions are going to come second to ambition. He’s hardly going to turn Deep Throat, informant-wise or otherwise, and Jackson should probably stop picturingthatscenario immediately.
Jackson slides onto a stool, its legs wobblier than a newborn foal’s, and orders a rye and coke. At least the Celtics game is on; it gives him something to stare at other than the peeling beer labels stuck to the bartop.
An hour and another rye in, Jackson’s still got nothing. Stop the presses, Mort: it turns out fishermen like to drink.
He’s about to call it a night when a voice at the pool table slices through the bar chatter. It belongs to an older man, staggering slightly, in a faded Whitaker Seafood pullover boasting ‘One Million Man-Hours Worked Without a Lost-Time Accident,’ ironic considering he currently looks one wrong drink away from losing more than time.
After missing his final shot, the guy curses loudly, slams his pool cue against the felt, and shuffles off to the ATM to settle up. Then he drifts toward the bar, clearly expecting consolation in liquid form.
The bartender regards him sympathetically but keeps his hands away from the taps. “Maybe wanna slow down a bit?”
