Fire and Water: a Red Dead story

17

For the first time in his life, John Marston had a legal job. And damn, if it wasn't the worst thing he had ever done. 

"Yeah, fellers generally get here, 'round 5 in the mornin'." The floor manager was taking him around, showing him machines and telling him what they did. John promptly forgot everything the man said.

"Hold on, five  in the goddamn mornin'?" He was amazed. If this was what it was like holding a decent job, then he would never be caught alive doing one. 

"That's right, Mr. Callahan." Callahan, Arthur's old alias, he'd stolen it quick when the man had asked for a name. "But you should get here a mite earlier, so as you can learn them machines better."

"Of course." He was going to kill Lindon. "You gonna help me with that, or do I talk to someone else."

"I'll keep an eye out for you, in the followin' days, but generally--" He motioned to the machine. "Most the time, you'll jus' be pullin' these down as the metal comes on through."

John watched him, already feeling discouraged. How was he supposed to scope the place out if he was to stand there all day, pulling down a stamp on a bit of brittle metal? "When do I get out?" 

"Bell rings at five."

"Goddamn." That gave him almost no time to look around the factory plant and none at all to glance inside the Saluda offices. "I'm guessin' we get breaks, right?"

The man paused, "Now, law dictates you're supposed to, but Mr. Pleths tries to discourage any breaks when possible."

John raised an eyebrow. "Discourages breaks? How you mean?"

"We notice you slackin', or takin' an unusual time off your station, wages get dropped, that ain't enough, you get fired."

John nodded. Couldn't wait to steal from this money sucker. "I get to eat anytime, or is that discouraged too."

The man nodded. "Bell rings for our floor at ten, you will be relieved and given fifteen minutes to eat lunch or whatever you need to do, you should be back at your station when the bell rings again."

"Wonderful."

"Yes," the man had misread him entirely. "Mr. Pleths runs a right ship, but he makes so much money from it. One can understand, you don't want workers wastin' time when there's good to be made!"

"Of course not." Heaven forbid someone pisses on company time. "Hate to waste a single dollar in Mr. Pleths books."

"You get it!" The man clapped him on the arm, smiling brightly. "Now, I'll see you back here, bright and early."

John grimaced at him as he walked away, and again cursed out Lindon. "Sonova bitch. Knew damn well what he was doin' puttin' me here." He made his way back to his rented room, a small bed and breakfast. The owner smiled as he came in and he grimaced back, knowing he no doubt looking like murder. 

"Ah, Mr. Callahan, you have luck with the factory, have ya?" She had a child on her hip, and a strong Scottish accent, that faintly reminded John of his father. 

"Reckon so." He replied. "Thank you, miss."

He headed upstairs, ignoring the creaking of the stairs, and the wailing of the children below. His room was small, cramped most people would say, but as someone who had at the best of times slept on the ground, it was a step up from his current living situation. He collapsed on the creaking bed and frowned. 

He had no time during the day to actually do any of the important things that needed to be done. Unless he could find time during his shifts and scope the place out then. He shook his head, floor managers stalked the floor, checking each station periodically, he'd have to be quick and careful. The other alternative was to break into both the factory and the office during the night.