“So, when you’re done with the cart, you sign off on the sheet here.” Harris tapped on a clipboard with a strung pen in a steel box welded onto the side. “Date, time, and shipment number, then initial.”
Bigby picked the clipboard up, only to pause. “Why does it say ‘Tonya Harding’s Bodyguard’ on the inside there?” he said, gesturing at a message crudely markered on the cart in the clipboard box.
“Shit, you’re young,” Harris sighed. “Do you even know who Tonya Harding is?”
“Miss America?”
“She was a figure skater. Won a bunch of gold medals, got every parent thinking their kid could be a skating star for a while. Kept my son off the rink when he wanted to play hockey is all it did.”
“Uh, okay?” Bigby said. “So why is her name on a cart at Home Supply that we use for unloading shipments of tools?”
“Jesus, you’re young. Look, when she was at the top of her game, Tonya Harding paid her bodyguard to try and cripple her rival. But when he got caught, the fat sack of shit, he ratted her out, got her banned for life.”
“And that’s on the clipboard box because…?”
“Because the clipboard is a fat son of a bitch who will tattle on you if you don’t fill it out right or if you break anything,” said Harris. “We done with Twenty Questions now, or what?”
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