I'VE BEEN THINKING a lot lately about the differences between right and wrong. Surely, stealing is wrong. But is it wrong if you steal food to feed a child? Murder is wrong, but I suppose I could probably make a case for that as well. Morality is really subjective – at least that is what I'm going to tell myself so I can sleep at night after this.
Mr. Beck won't issue Jeremy a permit because he has a beef with the club. That seems wrong, especially in light of the fact that, when I asked Jeremy why he was so determined to work at Forsaken Custom Cycle, he said he wants to make his dad proud. While Grady is usually pretty mum about anything related to the club, he does talk with me liberally about the personal dynamics at play between the club members and their families. Some of the relationships seem a little messy, but he promises me that once things calm down with the crazy Italian guy, Jim and Ruby are going to have a big party so I can get to know everyone. They’re obviously a tight-knit group that has each other’s backs, and if I want to be worthy of my place beside Grady, I’m going to have to earn it.
"Next," the teller says. She gives me a friendly wave of her hand, welcoming me to her station. I recognize her as the mother of one of my students. Her daughter, Vickie, is a sophomore with a serious eager-beaver attitude. I give her my best friendly smile and push out whatever lingering guilt I am feeling about doing this. It's for a good cause, I remind myself. Even if there are some casualties along the way, I'm determined to carry this through. Mr. Beck may not be the monster that I want to paint him to be, but he’s certainly not a good guy, either.
"Holly, how are you doing today?" The teller is all smiles as I set the three checks and the deposit slip on the counter. I lean forward just slightly and give her an apologetic smile.
"Oh, pretty good. You know, I just realized that I don't have the account number for these deposits. Mr. Beck was in a bit of mood when he sent me over here. I would really hate to have to go all the way back to the school." Thankfully, she doesn't push. One of the benefits of small-town banking is that it's actually quite easy to convince a teller to pull up a customer's information using just their name.
"Don't worry about it. Between you and me, Mr. Beck never remembers his own account number." With a few taps of the keyboard and a little redirect of the mouse, she's pulled up what she was looking for, grabs the pen, and gets to filling out the account number on the deposit slip. In addition to Mr. Beck's obvious agenda against the club, he has a rather liberal interpretation of what can be counted as a business expense. Unfortunately, his liberties have all been small and accounted to less than $500 in the last few years. I'm not looking to bust the guy for a few too many business lunches from questionable establishments. Call me crazy, but I don't think the school board allows their administrative staff to write off lunch at the golf course every other Tuesday, even if Mr. Beck's companion is the ever-charitable local attorney, Larry Jennings.
“Thank you,” I say as the teller deposits the checks without issue and hands me a receipt. I look over the receipt for a moment and hop from foot to foot. The teller eyes me curiously, but stays quiet. Finally, I turn back toward her and give her a nervous smile. “I might be biting off more than I can chew here, but I just don’t want to get in trouble at work. Are deposits like these common for Mr. Beck?”
The teller looks around and bites her lower lip. I sigh then pat her rested hand on the counter. With a nod, I say, “I’m sorry, forget I asked.”
I’m about to turn around when she says, “Wait. Listen, if you’re uncomfortable with making these deposits, I suggest you go to the school board with your concerns. I have nothing against Mr. Beck—he’s always been good to my kids—but he has a membership at the golf course. That place is expensive. My husband is a landscaper there, and he’s seen him playing a few rounds during school hours with Larry Jennings. You know that lawyer whose son was…violated?”
Pay dirt.
I force myself not to smile or show any other sign of excitement over this information. I knew Mr. Beck was up to something. His behavior has changed too much in the last several weeks for there not to be a reason for it.
“Well, my husband thinks Larry Jennings is trying to find out what happened to his son because Mr. Beck is always handing over these files and the few times Bob got close enough to hear, they were discussing troubled students. It doesn’t seem right—an administrator doing something that like. It’s awful what happened to poor Darren. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen here, ya know?”
I nod and lean in like what she’s said is the absolutely most interesting thing on the planet. “I know. That’s kind of scary, but how can Mr. Beck help?”