The Man in the car gazed at the passing scenery. Flat land for a hundred miles in every direction.
“Plympton…” he said, opening his black briefcase. Inside were several bundles of hundred dollar bills, a carton of cigarettes, and a Milk-Bone.
Before he left for this mission, he had asked “What’s the dog treat for?”
“You’ll know when it happens,” The Boss said.
“Can’t just tell me what it’s for?”
“Oh, you’ll know.”
The Lincoln slowed as it entered the tiny town, really just a handful of little brick buildings. It pulled to a stop in front of the general store. The Man got out.
“This is a lot farther than 5 miles from the airport, Mister,” said the driver. He held his hand out the window, palm up.
“Keep the change…?”
The Man slid a Milk-Bone into the driver’s hand.
As the car screeched away, The Man heard a snarling behind him. All the noise must have woken up the German Shepherd that had been sleeping in front of the the store. It was a tense situation, but The Man managed to sneak by the canine in that precious moment of confusion that follows a dog being hit in the face by a handful of cigarettes.
“What can I do ya for?” a voice asked over the jingle of bells. It wasn’t homespun charm. Pete, the general store manager, was mildly dyslexic.
The Man set the briefcase on the counter. “I’d like to make a deal. With your whole town.”