Remy had replaced the standard rims and tires with custom chrome rims and high-profile tires.
“Are those twenty-twos?” Alonzo Benavidez, Bastien’s first shift crew chief, slid his sunglasses down onto the tip of his nose and peered over the edge in admiration of Remy’s new chrome hubcaps. “Dang! That boy’s rolling large.”
“Those aren’t twenty-twos. Those are thirty-inch rims…Giovannas,” Jayden Jeffers, Bastien’s summer hire corrected.
“How would you know that?” Bastien asked. He knew the boy was all about cars. His locker was jam-packed with trade magazines.
“I saw my brother searching on a rims Web site. My brother’s been saving up for three months for a set to put on his Hummer H2.”
“Here, let me get that for you.” Melvin Weldon, the oldest employee on Bastien’s crew, peeled his sweat-drenched bandanna off his head and made a motion as if to wipe the drool from Jayden’s mouth.
Jayden jerked his head back, distracted from Remy’s grand entrance by the sour smell of Melvin’s sweat band. “Man, get that funky rag out of my face.” He turned back when Remy revved the van’s engine and stomped on the brakes to make the van surge forward several times.
“Look at this fool here,” Bastien muttered.
He immediately regretted that he’d said that out loud. He should have kept his mouth shut. Remy wasn’t only his cousin. Like it or not, he was also his boss. And it just wasn’t cool to talk about your boss in front of the other employees.
Alonzo, Melvin and Jayden had all gathered in the parking lot to firm up plans for hooking up later. Once a month Bastien took his team away so they could talk openly, honestly—sometimes brutally honest—about what was going on around CT Inspectorate. Just as Remy pulled up, they’d decided to meet up at Solly’s Fast Lanz bowling alley and come up with solutions to their problems over a couple games and appetizers.
Bastien lifted his hand to call Remy over to them, but Remy ignored him and remained seated in the van with his eyes trained forward. One arm was draped across the steering wheel that he drummed while his head bobbed to the music. Remy looked over at Bastien’s crew, acknowledging them with a lift of his chin and an implied “what’s up?”
Bastien turned back to the group. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll meet up with you at Solly’s as soon as I finish up with Remy.”
“You sure you don’t want us to wait for you, boss? Maybe Remy will give us a ride to the bowling alley?” Jayden suggested.
Alonzo made a rude sound of dismissal. “You volunteering to ride in the company van? You were never that hot on riding in the van before.”
“I think maybe Jayden is hoping that showing up at Fast Lanz in that will get him some action from the ladies,” Melvin added. It was Monday night. Ladies’ league night at Solly’s.
“Nobody’s riding in that clown car,” Bastien said in disgust, gesturing at the newly applied vinyl decals. Trendy or not, Bastien thought the new decals were a hot mess. The tackiest custom detail job he’d ever seen. Orange flames shooting out of what was supposed to be a greenish-gray navy destroyer slicing through a swaying ocean of psychedelic purple wheat. A navy destroyer instead of a cargo vessel. What in the world was that supposed to convey in the magazine ad? That CT Inspectorate blew up its products and was color blind?
When Remy didn’t get out right away, Bastien strode over to the van, planted his hands on the door and leaned in.
“Remy,” he ground out his greeting through clenched teeth.
“I already know what you’re going to say.” Remy cut him off.
“No, I don’t think you do. What is this supposed to be?”
“What? You don’t like it?” Remy lifted an eyebrow in genuine surprise.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What are you so pissed off about?”
“Because G-Paw told me to prep the van for the magazine ad. Not pimp it.”
Bastien wasn’t looking forward to confessing to the owner of the company that he’d blown their entire advertising budget for the year with Remy’s stunt. One magazine ad. That’s all they were getting because of the money he must have put down for this. No more sixty-second television spots that Bastien had already lined up with a local basketball fan favorite to be their pitchman. No more traveling for trade shows where Bastien could get out and press the flesh of potential contracts. And they could forget sponsoring the local high school sports teams. Bastien would just have to call the athletic director and tell her that Inspectorate couldn’t do it this year.
In his mind’s eye, Bastien watched in frustration as the future growth of his division dried up and blew away on the wind like ashes from deliberately torched grain fields. All scorched by the withering glare of Charles Harrison Thibeadaux—the power behind CT Inspectorate. Everyone in the family called him G-Paw. Grandpa. In a normal family, that would have been a term of endearment. Nothing normal about his family, Bastien would be the first to admit. And nothing normal about the way that old man treated them either. The G might as well have stood for godforsaken. G-Paw was a tough old man—spawned, suckled and saved by Satan himself. G-Paw didn’t have much love for his family. It was all poured into his grain inspection business. He knew how to handle his business and had not a whit of patience for those working with him who didn’t have the same level of good business sense. A sentiment that he shared and pushed Remy, the number two man in the company, to enforce.
Too bad Remy didn’t understand the spirit of what G-Paw was trying to do, Bastien commiserated.
Remy reminded Bastien of his perceived incompetence every day for the four years since Bastien transferred here from their Louisiana office. From the time he walked through the doors in the morning until the time Bastien clocked out, Remy was on his back. As far as Remy was concerned, Bastien was there at his indulgence, and either he would shape up to be a good little company man or he could ship out. Literally. Ship out with the next load of company-inspected grain heading for China, South America, Italy or any of the other international ports with which they did business.
“I told you that I’d take care of it.” Remy’s insistence brought Bastien out of his mental downward spiral of dejection.
“Take care of it, huh? You want to tell me how you got all of this accomplished on the shoestring budget I’ve been given.”
“Don’t you worry about it. I handled it.”
“Remy,” Bastien repeated.
“I said I handled it, okay? Now back up, Bastien!”
Bastien yanked on the door handle of the van, flinging it open, thinking that he was going to grab Remy by the scruff of his neck, toss him in the back of the van and beat the smug look off his face. “Get out of there, Remy,” he ordered.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Remy bristled.
Bastien modulated his tone. “Give me the keys. I’ll put the van back into the garage.”
Bastien thought if he could just get this monstrosity out of sight before anyone else saw it, he still might have time to clean up Remy’s
