Chapter Text
Oh how wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying.
– Ancient Proverb
“How can you keep an eye on the shop if you’re out here?”
Frank looks up from the pumpkin in his lap that he’s in the middle of gutting to find Ray coming his way with a big paper bag cradled in the crook of his arm. Chinese food. Fuck, that man is an angel. If he showed up in, like, ten minutes, Frank would already have a face full of shitty pizza from the shitty hole-in-the-wall across the street because he forgot to bring lunch this morning. He hates that pizza place, and he’s pretty sure it hates him right back.
Frank plucks his cigarette from his mouth, his lips sticking to the paper, and grins. “Honor system, Toro. Don’t you see that pile of money on the counter?”
Ray peeks between the gaps in the posters stuck on the inside of the shop’s windows. “Hm,” he says thoughtfully, shifting the bag of food to his other hip like a baby. “What about inventory?”
Frank laughs and lets himself be pulled to his feet by the elbow when Ray sticks out a hand. “Come on, man, it’s like you don’t know how we run the place.”
Ray shoves the warm, fucking delicious-smelling Chinese food into Frank’s arms. “Here, it’s kind of cold out.” He rubs Frank’s shoulder for good measure and Frank over-exaggerates by flopping around like a ragdoll. “I know what you do,” he says, laughing. “But now that you’re getting more business I’m just worried people might try to take advantage, you know?”
Frank takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks it into the pile of pumpkin guts on the sidewalk. “You’re seriously gonna give yourself gray hair.”
When they go in, one of their regulars is sitting on an overturned milk crate tucked into the corner reading the back of an Evil Dead II VHS. She must have snuck past when Frank was elbow deep in his pumpkin, because he doesn’t recall seeing her go in.
“Hey, Gracie,” he says, heaving the bag of food onto the counter. “Playing hooky again?”
Grace looks up and flashes her braces at him in a metal-mouthed attempt at a smile, and Frank spies orange and black rubber bands for Halloween. “Nah, a bunch of the classrooms are getting, like, fumigated, or whatever, so we get a four day weekend. Hey, is this still five bucks?”
“For you it’s ten.”
“Shut your face. Hey, Ray, I saw that promo thing you did on TikTok. It makes this place look way cooler than it is.”
Grace is a sarcastic little shit, but the compliment is genuine, and it makes Ray beam like a curly-haired sunflower. Frank rolls his eyes and starts to unpack their lunch, pushing aside the pile of money and making a mental note not to forget to put it in the register or Schechter will really have his ass this time.
“Thank you, Grace!” Frank can still hear the smile in Ray’s voice and it makes him smile, too. “Record Store Day posted it to their Twitter, so that was pretty sick.”
Like he can read Frank’s mind, Ray goes around the counter and starts sorting the loose pile of money into the register. “Which is what I’m trying to tell you,” he says quietly to Frank, even though Grace is too absorbed in her VHS tape to eavesdrop. “I’m not trying to gloat or anything, but you’re probably going to be getting a lot more outside business, especially when I put the full thing up on YouTube.”
“Man, I appreciate the hell out of everything you’re doing, but you don’t have to worry.” Frank plunges his dirty fingers into a carton of boneless spare ribs and pops a few in his mouth while Ray’s preoccupied with counting the money for him. Mouth full, he pushes over the legal pad and says, “Look, everyone knows what to do when no one’s home.”
On the legal pad Frank had drawn a line down the middle of the page and written Item on one side and Price on the other. He adds up the numbers in his head from the price column, sucking on his fingers that taste like shit from the pumpkin and his cigarette, and says, “Did you get … a hundred and fifty-two bucks?”
Ray pushes the drawer to the register shut and sighs. “Yeah, I did.”
“So, see? We’re all good!” Frank stretches over the counter to ruffle Ray’s hair. “We’ll worry about this outside business when it walks through the door, alright?”
The door to the shop opens with a jingle and in strides a vampire. No, actually, it’s just some pale skinny guy in head-to-toe black, including his sunglasses, even though it’s been overcast all day. Maybe Frank spoke too soon about the outside business, because he’s never seen this guy before.
Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the guy looks around the shop in a wistful sort of way, and when his roving gaze lands on Frank and Ray at the counter, his eyebrows shoot up over his sunglasses and he whips them off.
“Hey! Sorry, these things are like horse blinders.” He hooks the glasses in the front of his hoodie and flashes a smile that makes the tips of Frank’s fingers tingle. Maybe he’s from the city; Frank’s always had a soft spot for city boys.
The guy sticks his hand out and comes over on legs like stilts. “Mikey Way.”
Ray hums, delighted as always, and shakes Mikey Way’s hand over the counter — which is definitely not the name Frank would have given this guy. He’s got a jawline that sharp and his name is Mikey?
“Hey, I’m Ray, and this is Frank,” says Ray in his best Customer Service voice, doing a piss-poor job at hiding his hope that Mikey is here from the TikTok. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Mikey runs a hand through his short blonde hair, the brightest thing on him next to his skin. “I’m actually looking for a job. Are you the owner?”
Definitely not here from TikTok, then; Ray showcased Frank and Brian several times throughout, and tagged them on every social media account he posted the video to. He does a better job at hiding his disappointment, at least. “No, that would be Frank.”
Mikey turns his bright, pointy smile to Frank. His canines really do look like vampire fangs. “Are you hiring by chance?”
Frank blinks, stilling his hand in the carton of warm ribs. “Can you work a register?”
“Better than I’d like to admit.”
“Do you like music? And movies?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“When can you start?”
Ray tries to catch Frank’s eye, no doubt remembering the last time Frank had hired someone without consulting Brian and they ended up sacking her for shooting up in the back room, but Frank ignores him. The holidays are coming up, they could use an extra set of hands. He’s sure Brian will understand.
Mikey finally thrusts his hand in Frank’s direction. “Whenever you want me. But if it’s not too much of a pain in the ass, I prefer night shifts.”
Frank grabs his hand and gives it a pump. “Fine with me, man. None of us like doing night shifts anyway.”
Something weird happens, then. When their hands touch, the lights in the shop flicker and the radio cuts out for half a second, and a fucking violent chill runs all the way up Frank’s arm and down his spine like Mikey transferred a case of the heebie jeebies to Frank through their palms. No city boy has ever made him feel like that.
No one seems to notice whatever the fuck just happened, so Frank finishes his awkwardly long handshake with Mikey and says, clearing his throat, “Well.” He feels like he’s buzzing. Like, head-to-toe pins and needles. “Welcome to In The Groove Records, I guess.”
Ray does a half-hearted cheer and Mikey looks relieved. “Thanks, man, I really appreciate it. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to break out the resume again.”
Frank waves him off with a wonky smile. He tries to pull his eyes from Mikey’s face, but he finds he can’t. It’s like they’re drawn there, like his face is a flame and Frank’s eyes are moths. What the fuck is wrong with him all of a sudden?
“Where are you from, Mikey?” Ray asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
Mikey slips his black-out sunglasses back on his long, thin nose. It helps with Frank’s sudden staring problem and he blinks rapidly a few good times. He’s still tingling, and he shakes out his hands. “Born and raised right here in Jersey. My brother and I were living down the Shore for a while but we missed the north, so we headed back up here, you know?”
Ray nods so hard his hair bounces along with him. “No, yeah, the Shore can get kinda sucky after a while. What does your brother do?”
A muscle stands out in Mikey’s jaw, and he shoves his hands back into the pocket on his hoodie. “He’s, uh, sick, so he’s just doing something seasonal. We’re both kind of big on Halloween, so it’s a losing battle telling him to stay home this time of year.”
“Yeah, same,” Frank offers uselessly, and Ray hums. Maybe whatever Mikey’s brother has is contagious and now Frank has it. Hopefully not, because he’s already got enough health issues of his own.
“Well,” Mikey says eventually, picking up a pen from the counter and writing his number in an empty corner of the legal pad. “I’ll leave you guys to your lunch.”
“Oh, do you want some?” Ray asks, holding up a container of lo mein. “We’ve definitely got enough here.”
The muscle in Mikey’s jaw jumps. “No, thanks, I’ve got a pretty strict diet.”
“You sure?”
“A hundred percent.”
“See you tomorrow, then? Four o’clock?” Ray says. “That’s when the closing shift starts.”
Mikey nods, looking the opposite of when he came in. That’s to say, he looks forlorn, and Frank wonders what part of the conversation bummed him out. “See you at four.”
The minute he’s out of the shop, Frank goes back to feeling normal. His blood stops feeling like static in his veins and he sucks in a breath, shaking out his hands one more time for good measure.
“You feeling okay, Frankie?” Ray asks with those worried mother hen eyes of his, but Frank doesn’t get a chance to answer him before Grace is catapulting herself up to the counter with her VHS tape.
“Well, that was embarassing as fuck.”
Ray tosses her a fortune cookie from the bottom of the paper bag and she shoves it in the pocket of her jean jacket. In exchange she slides over a five dollar bill that Ray sticks in the register.
“Even I’m not that bad with cute boys,” she goes on.
“What?”
Ray laughs, carefully dumping some sticky white rice into his container of chicken noodle soup. “That is not how Frank flirts. Trust me, I’ve seen it. It’s worse.”
“Hey — ”
“You were looking at that guy like he was the second coming of Jesus!” Grace squawks, and makes a face that Frank assumes is supposed to be what he looked like: Mouth hanging open and eyes all wide and moony. He definitely didn’t look like that, sheesh.
“I’m not afraid to hit a kid,” he tells her seriously, but she just rolls her eyes..
“Whatever. At least you got his number!”
Grace skips out of the shop and Frank is stuck staring at the door in disbelief. The balls on kids today!
“You were acting kind of off,” Ray says when she’s gone and Frank whips his head around. Ray stuffs his mouth full of soup, his eyebrows raised for an explanation.
Frank sputters because he doesn’t know what to say, which definitely doesn’t help his case. “He — It wasn’t like that! I swear! He’s not even my type, damn.”
“Then, what? Are you constipated, or something?”
“Jesus Christ, Toro.”
“It’s an honest question! You were being weird.”
Frank shrugs and digs into a carton of sweet and sour chicken next, foregoing the sauce, which is looming at the edge of the counter like a container of neon SFX blood. “I don’t know, man. I felt weird.”
“How so?”
Frank shrugs again. “I felt all … buzzy. Or something. Do I have a fever?”
Ray presses the back of his hand to Frank’s forehead but he shakes his head. “You feel fine to me.”
“Huh.” Frank stares down at his chicken. “Whatever, Halloween’s always a weird time. I swear I’m more subjected to weird shit since it’s my birthday.”
“Oh! That reminds me — ”
Ray pulls out two long, glossy tickets from his back pocket and pushes them across the counter. Frank picks one up with greasy fingers. The tickets are black with orange and purple polka dots and little white clip-art ghosts. They look like something Frank would have made in his high school graphic design class.
“The manager at that new haunted house really liked the video I shot with his actors last week and they’re gonna air it on a local channel tonight.”
Frank looks up from the tickets to find Ray as red as the sweet and sour sauce. “That’s fucking awesome! Congrats, seriously. That’s … what? The third thing you got on TV?”
“Third, yeah.” Ray takes one of the tickets and sticks it back in his pocket. “Still hoping I can get the one for the shop on TV too.”
“Wait,” Frank says, “You got, like, paid, right? Like, this isn’t all they gave you?”
Ray snorts. The sleighbells on the door jingle again and in comes Rob and Jessie from the thrift store down the block still in their work smocks. Frank and Ray wave to them.
“I got a check too, Frankie. Which is safely in the bank. The tickets are just a bonus. They were giving a couple out for opening night.”
“Sick,” Frank says and looks back down at his ticket. “Opening night,” he reads, “Friday, October 16th. Seven-thirty. Man, I haven’t been to one of these fucking things in forever.”
“Me neither. I feel like we haven’t done anything fun together in forever, either.” Ray reaches over and steals one of the pieces of chicken from the carton Frank’s working his way through and dips it in his soup.
“What?” Frank asks, mouth full. He can already tell he’s gonna regret eating this shit in the morning. It may not be as bad as the pizza place across the street, but he doesn't do good with any takeout. “We do a lot of fun stuff, man.”
“I know, but, like, I always have my camera with me. Sometimes I feel like it’s ingenuine I guess.”
“Are you bringing your camera to the haunted house?”
Ray considers it, making a face like he just stepped in dog shit. “I didn’t want to, but I promised my viewers a proper walkthrough when they opened.”
“So? Wear your GoPro. Hands-free fun.” Frank waves his hands and Ray laughs at him.
“You know, contrary to popular belief, you’re not at dumb as you look.”
Frank throws a fortune cookie at him. “Fuck you!”
Ray catches it like the suave bastard he is and pops the plastic wrapper open. He cracks the cookie in half and pulls out the fortune inside. “A new business venture is on the horizon.” He frowns. “Hm. Interesting. You do one.”
Frank grabs one of the cookies from the pile (Ray always asks for a fuckton of fortune cookies; it’s one of the only reasons Frank keeps him around) and tears it open. He smashes the cookie against the counter with the flat of his hand and plucks out the crumpled strip of paper. He clears his throat dramatically before reading it. “Love conquers all.” Frank snorts. “Gay rights, hell yeah, Golden Chopsticks.”
Ray grabs another cookie and opens it up in his clean little civilized way. “Next full moon brings an enchanting evening. Oh, Halloween is a full moon. And your birthday! Oh, shit, maybe that is why you were feeling weird.”
Frank sweeps the crumbs from his cookie off the counter into his hand and knocks them back. Most of them land on his shirt. “Makes sense, even though it’s ominous as hell. Whatever, my turn.”
He Hulk-smashes another fortune cookie. “Be on the lookout for coming events; they cast their shadow beforehand. That one’s even worse!”
“I’m getting mixed signals from our fortune cookies,” Ray says, frowning.
“It sounds like you’re gonna get a new job on Halloween and I’m gonna … fall in love? Or, like, something creepy’s gonna happen and whoever I fall in love with is gonna swoop in and save the day.” He shrugs it all off. He never did believe in fortune cookies. “Whatever, I’ll drink to that. Pass me my soda.”
Ray grabs Frank’s warm, severely flat bottle of Sprite from under the counter and hands it to him.
“I’m going to regret eating this shit. Stop being my enabler, Toro, I’m gonna wake up with the Hershey squirts tomorrow. That’s probably another reason I felt weird.”
“We only eat out to celebrate. And please don’t say Hershey squirts, you sound like my Grandma.”
“Well, we celebrate a lot, then. One of these days I’ll finally bite the bullet and go full veg for the sake of my shitty-ass digestive system,” Frank plucks another mini rib from the carton and pops it in his mouth, “but today is once again not that day.”
Frank doesn’t wake up with the Hershey squirts, but he does wake up with one hell of a stomachache and a sick case of nausea to boot, so he ends up knocking back Tums for breakfast.
Ray drives him to the shop so Frank doesn’t have to walk all the way there feeling like shit, and he looks like a dog that pissed all over the carpet the whole way.
“You know, I’m sure Brian won’t mind opening again. You should just stay home, Frankie.”
Frank curls up against the passenger door and groans. Currently, he feels like his intestines are trying to turn themselves into a pretzel. “I’m tired of asking him to cover me just because my body fucking hates me.”
“Yeah, but — ”
“I can handle sitting around all day, Toro. Trust me.”
When they pull up to the shop, Frank gets out with all the speed of an old man, cradling his bottles of ginger ale and Tums as he pulls his keys from his pocket. When he gets on the other side of the car, Ray is already at the door with his backpack like a kid excited for his first day of school.
“What are you doing?”
Ray lifts the backpack a little. “I’m gonna edit here.”
That’s Ray-speak for I feel bad so I’m going to follow you around like a puppy for the rest of the day. Which, fine. Frank wouldn’t say it, but he was kind of hoping Ray would stay for a while. He hates being alone when he feels like shit.
“Whatever.”
And that’s Frank Is Sick-speak for Thanks, man. You’re a good friend.
Ray drops his bag behind the counter and sets off to straighten up the shop before opening, which makes Frank feel a little better while he balances the till. When the radio’s on and the sign on the door is flipped around, Ray sets up his laptop at the counter and Frank bundles himself up in a sweatshirt he’d left in the back and heads outside.
“Morning, gang,” he says to the pumpkins lining the front of the shop. He’s surprised no jerk-off kids smashed them all yet; he worked hard on these fuckers.
Frank picks up the one he was working on yesterday and sits down on the freezing sidewalk. He rolls his sleeves up and fishes the carving tools from the bottom of the hollowed-out pumpkin and gets to work on what he hopes is going to be a bat.
Before Frank knows it, though, he’s waking up with Ray looming over him, and his stomach feels better.
“Hungry yet? You didn’t eat breakfast.”
Frank blinks up at him, then looks down at his half-done jack-o’-lantern and his bloody finger. His bloody — ?
“Woah, what the hell did you do?”
Ray grabs the X-Acto knife from Frank’s lap and throws it safely back inside the pumpkin. He helps Frank to his feet and checks out the rest of him with a concerned pinch between his brows. Ray hates when Frank calls him a mother hen, but that’s exactly what he is. Like, all the time. Frank would probably be dead without him, though.
“I wish you would use those shitty plastic tools like everyone else,” Ray says, herding Frank into the shop where it’s nice and toasty. He shivers inside his sweatshirt and pushes his hood down with the hand that isn’t being squeezed to death by his best friend.
“I’m an artiste,” Frank says, yawning.
“No, you’re a hazard.”
They go to the back of the shop, which doubles as a stockroom and a breakroom, and Ray tugs him over to the ratty secondhand couch and pushes him into it. He digs around in the desk for a while and finally produces a Band-Aid and an antiseptic wipe, which he tears open with his teeth.
“What happened to the first aid kit?” Ray asks as he sits on the arm of the couch. Frank rests his hand on Ray’s thigh and yawns again.
“We were always losing it so Brian just dumped everything in the desk drawer and got rid of the box. Wait, actually, I think we’re keeping spare needles in it now.”
“Record needles?”
“No, heroin needles.”
“Right.” Ray wraps Frank’s finger in the Band-Aid and gets up from the couch. “That’s why you’re supposed to nail first aid kits to the wall.”
“Whatever,” Frank says. He flutters his eyelashes and pouts. “Kiss it?”
Ray rolls his eyes and smacks Frank’s hand away. “Stupid.”
Back out in the empty shop, he slaps his laptop closed and pulls on his jacket. “I’m gonna run home and grab those leftovers from last night. Are you gonna be okay? How are you feeling?”
Frank pats his stomach. “My impromptu nap on the sidewalk has cured me.”
“Okay, cool, I’ll be back soon.”
“Yeah, drive safe. Oh, hey — ” Frank pulls out his wallet and hands Ray some cash. “Can you stop at Starbucks?”
“Man, I hate how you pay for everything in cash.” Ray snatches the money from him and stuffs it in his pocket. “Your credit score is only gonna get worse, you know.”
“Comes from a childhood spent at garage sales and flea markets, baby.”
Ray rolls his eyes for the millionth time and leaves the shop.
The rest of the day is as dead as the morning, so dead that Frank starts nodding off outside again after he and Ray eat lunch when he’s trying to finally finish his last jack-o’-lantern, and Ray tells him to go in the back to take a nap before he cuts himself again or catches pneumonia. Frank can’t argue with that, so he curls up on the couch and passes the fuck out.
He wakes up to his phone ringing — Mom — and when he silenced her call he sees it’s almost three . Wiping gunk out of his eyes, he hops up and heads back out onto the floor to help with the after-work rush.
Huddled around the Rock bin is a group of middle schoolers with their backpacks still on, littered with goofy keychains and buttons, and a man in a suit is staring at the DVDs, but he seems preoccupied with the bluetooth in his ear. Frank scratches his head and tries to avoid making eye contact with two girls in Stop N Shop uniforms that are flipping through the new horror movie soundtrack display.
The steady business keeps them so, well, busy that Frank doesn’t realize it’s the end of his shift until Brian’s coming in with his megawatt smile and a Dunkin’ cup.
“Hey, Schechter!” calls one of the customers, a guy that’s been lingering by the VHS tapes for the last fifteen minutes. Brian waves at him and then nods to Ray.
“Are you going to let me pay you today, Toro?” he says.
Ray laughs as he bags up a lady’s haul of BritPop 8-tracks. “Hell, no. I help out of the goodness of my heart. Pardon my French, ma’am.”
Brian waves him off and slaps Frank on the back. “Hey, man, you look like shit.”
“Thanks.” Frank laughs and punches him in the arm in return. “I was kind of sick this morning, but I’m fine now.” He wrinkles his nose at Brian’s coffee. “I can’t believe you drink that shit.”
“Okay, Mr. Grande Mocha Frappu-venti Hoohah; that’s probably why you’re always sick, all that frickin’ sugar.” Brian takes a pointed sip from his Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “Some of us like the classic stuff.”
Frank shakes his head and puts down the album he was holding. “Fuckin’ boomer. You should just get your black coffee from Mickey Dee’s like my dad.”
Brian makes a face and points at him. “Now that’s blasphemy. And who the fuck are you calling a boomer? You know what? Let’s not get into that. Is the new guy here yet?”
“No, but he should be soon.”
“Hey, Mikey!”
They turn to find Mikey The New Guy heading to the counter, bright, pointy smile already in place for Ray.
Frank completely forgot about the weird feeling he’d gotten when they first met Mikey yesterday, decided Ray was right and it was just because of the upcoming full moon or the takeout or whatever, but here the guy is again, and Frank’s entire body is tingling like someone somewhere flipped a switch inside him.
“Hey, Bri, this is Mikey,” Ray introduces when they convene at the counter.
Frank watches Brian’s face closely to see if he’s feeling it too, but he only looks pleasantly surprised as he shakes Mikey’s hand, and Ray still doesn’t seem to notice it, either. It has to be the full moon. Even though that’s in, like, three weeks.
“Hi, Mikey Way,” Mikey says smoothly.
“Man, you got one hell of a grip on you, Mikey Way. You ever play baseball?”
Mikey smiles politely like he gets the question often and says simply, “No.”
His eyes find Frank’s and Frank feels a chill run through him, amplifying the tingling feeling, and he remembers suddenly the time when he was a kid when he stuck a fork in the socket behind the couch because his mom specifically told him not to and how a shock ran up his arm and his fingertips turned black. Frank’s fingertips aren’t black now, but a pins-and-needles feeling stayed with him after the incident, a numbness in his hands not unlike the one Mikey Way gives him.
Maybe the guy’s electric.
“I, uh, like the hat,” Frank says stupidly, because he feels like he has to say something.
Mikey touches his beanie absently and takes his sunglasses off. “Thanks.” He looks concerned behind the blackout shades, and says, “Are you okay?”
Frank holds his breath. Does he know? Does Mikey know that he makes him feel weird? Can he see it on his face? “Yeah, why?”
“Oh, you just look kind of pale, and I don’t want to bring anything home to my brother, you know?”
“Brother?” Brian says excitedly, sipping his coffee. He holds his caffeine like Frank holds his liquor. “Does he need a job too? I wouldn’t mind a couple new hands for the holidays.”
“I’m usually pale,” Frank says, but Mikey is squinting at his hand. More specifically, at the finger he had cut with the X-Acto knife. “Are you okay, dude?”
Mikey flicks his eyes back up to Frank’s face. “What?”
Frank wiggles his bandaged finger like Danny in The Shining. “If you’re worried about, like, germs, or whatever — ”
Mikey shakes his head and smiles mechanically, like he’s used to this, too. “Sorry, no, you’re good. I just hate blood.”
“Oh. Okay.” Frank clears his throat. The base of his skull is tingling, now, too, like when Ray makes him watch those creepy ASMR videos.
“Well, uh, Brian’s gonna show you the ropes,” Ray claps. “He’s the actual boss around here.”
Brian makes a pfft sound and grabs Mikey by one bony shoulder. “Only on paper, man. Come on, I’ll show you the back first.”
“Alright,” Mikey says, letting himself be pulled away. “It was cool seeing you guys again.”
“You too!” Ray says.
Out in the car, Frank notices that the tingling is gone and he’s once again back to feeling normal. He shakes a Tums into his hand and chews it thoughtfully.
“I’m pretty sure Mikey is the one making me feel weird. It only happens around him.”
Ray turns the key in the ignition, frowning. ”Is he giving you bad vibes?”
“No,” Frank shakes his head. “It’s a physical thing. He’s literally making me feel weird.”
“You said you felt buzzy yesterday.”
“Yeah, like when you get a chill, but it doesn’t go away.”
“Are your socks too tight?” Ray asks. “Because it sounds like bad circulation.”
“It’s not my socks. I don’t know, I’m always bad with, like, intuition. Maybe it is just bad vibes and Mikey’s gonna steal from the register, or something.”
Ray hums. “Brian’ll kill us if we hired another — you know, bad employee. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees. “We’ll just keep an eye on him.”