Opening Moves

by Phil Lollar

  “I happen to have an opening for part-time help. It’s temporary, maybe through the holidays only, but—”

  Eugene placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “I would be proud and honored to offer my meager ministrations as your most obsequious journeyman for whatever course of time you deem necessary.”

  Mr. Riley looked utterly baffled. “Eugene, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Are you one of those foreign-exchange students?”

  Mr. Whittaker laughed. “Welcome to Whit’s End, Eugene.”

  Eugene’s mind whirred again. “Whit’s End. Is that a pun?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I hate puns.”

  “Oh.”

  For the next hour or so, Mr. Whittaker let Eugene wander about the place on his own, soaking in the rooms and attractions. It was intriguing, to say the least—just the kind of place that could use his superior skills.

  He made his way back to the soda counter. Mr. Riley was nowhere in sight.

  Mr. Whittaker was finishing a telephone conversation. “Yes, Connie, I’ll be at the bus station at 6:30 a.m. sharp. You don’t think I’d let you slip out of town without saying good-bye, do you? Well, I’ll be there anyway. See you in the morning. ’Night.” He hung up the phone, sighed, and said softly, “Lord, help me relax about this. You love Connie even more than I do.”

  Eugene was taken aback. Was the man actually praying—a man of science and technology? “Uh, Mr. Whittaker?”

  “Oh! Hello, Eugene. Please, call me Whit.”

  “I think nicknames are terribly disrespectful, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “Oh. Did you get a good look around the place?”

  “I certainly did! It’s a fascinating building you’ve assembled here. The Victorian architecture is a poor disguise for the marvels inside.”

  Mr. Whittaker smiled. “Does that mean you like it?”

  “Like isn’t a word I like to use. Let’s just say I find this shop of yours to be a curiosity worth studying.”

  “Uh, thank you. I think.”

  “The train set is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. But do you realize that with a very simple computer program, you could operate those trains with far more efficiency and less wear?”

  Mr. Whittaker nodded. “I considered that once, but with a computer program, the children wouldn’t be able to run them.”

  “Precisely! I’ll put the program together for you. It will take no time at all. Professor Pierce would be grateful for me to have the experience. I’d be grateful.”

  “Uh, grateful . . . of course.”

  “In fact, I’ve thought up all kinds of new ideas for your shop, to make it far more convenient and efficient for you and your customers, from ice-cream serving to the displays upstairs. After all, that’s what inventing is about, isn’t it, Mr. Whittaker?”

  “In a way.”

  “I’ll get started tonight, while the shop is closed. You’ll be amazed when you come back in the morning!”

  He hurried off toward the stairs. As he did, he thought he heard Mr. Whittaker mutter, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Eugene worked like a whirlwind for the next week, and the results were remarkable, if he said so himself. The whole place had been automated, from the train set and the Bible Room to the pizza oven and milkshake machine. No human touch was necessary; computers ruled the roost. For Eugene, it was truly paradise.

  Mr. Whittaker, however, had other ideas. At the end of the week, he approached Eugene in the Inventors’ Corner.

  “Eugene.”

  “Ah! Hello, Mr. Whittaker. I’ve been going over these plans, and I think I’ve determined a way to—”

  “Eugene,” Whit cut in, “we need to talk.”

  Eugene blinked. “We do?”

  “Yes. It’s about the work you’ve been doing.”

  Eugene knew what this was about—praise. He had faced this before and was uncomfortable dealing with such inanities. “Now, Mr. Whittaker, let’s not resort to something so sentimental as gratitude. We’re both men of science, and we use our talents to better the human race.”

  To his surprise, Mr. Whittaker’s expression turned hard, his gaze piercing. “Time out. Everybody off the field.”

  “I-I beg your pardon?”

  “Eugene, I do appreciate your efforts around the shop, but you’re missing something very important in what you’re doing.”

  “I hate to contradict you, Mr. Whittaker, but I am known for thoroughness. What could I have possibly missed?”

  “Your heart.”

  Eugene blinked again, baffled. “I beg to differ. I couldn’t function at all if my heart weren’t—”

  Mr. Whittaker shook his head. “Not your physical heart, Eugene. Your emotional heart. See, you’ve done a great job of automating everything around here. But Whit’s End isn’t about automation, machines, or inventions. It’s about people. The kids come here for the fun—to learn, to build, but more important, to have human contact, a human touch. You can make it more efficient with your inventions, but can you make it warmer, friendlier, more loving?”

  Eugene was completely taken aback. This had never happened to him before. “Does this mean you’re firing me?”

  Mr. Whittaker smiled and patted his shoulder. “No. It means that I want you to undo everything you’ve done. Then we’ll see what we need to do together. Okay?”

  He wasn’t being fired—relief! “Certainly, Mr. Whittaker. I understand.”

  At that moment, a loud, obnoxious buzz from downstairs made them both jump. Mr. Whittaker pointed. “And the first thing you can do is put that nice little bell back above the front door!”

  Eugene smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  Chapter Ten

  The present . . .

  “Can you make it warmer, friendlier, more loving?”

  Eugene stood in the middle of the Bible Room with Mr. Whittaker’s words echoing in his mind. Warmer, friendlier, and loving were what this room was all about, he knew, but they weren’t concepts with which he was comfortable, mainly because he didn’t understand them. He had learned to tolerate them better during his tenure at Whit’s End—mostly because of his work in this room—but he still preferred computers, science, and the accumulation of knowledge. These he understood well and was frequently astounded when others not only didn’t understand them but also purposefully chose emotion instead.

  People like Miss Kendall, for instance. He knew her to have a decent mind—nothing nearly as advanced as his, of course, but decent nonetheless. And yet, rather than develop her mind to its fullest potential, she so frequently opted to wallow in a vat of emotional soup. Her persistent curiosity regarding what Mr. Whittaker had been up to the past several weeks was a perfect example. Rather than imitate his cool, intellectual detachment, she preferred to obsess. Such irrationality led to the only place it could: her ultimate disappointment.

  Not that her situation was completely devoid of emotion for him—namely, humor. He smiled, certain she was downstairs stewing at the reality that yet again he knew something she didn’t, and despite himself, he took an admitted pleasure in that.

  Then again, he didn’t know everything, did he? His smile faded.

  Applesauce.

  The image of Mr. Whittaker’s serious demeanor concerning the program popped into his mind and caused him no small amount of concern. It was one thing to have a computer control everything at Whit’s End, but quite another thing for that computer to contain a program so top secret it couldn’t even be discussed.

  Why would Mr. Whittaker even put such a program on Mabel in the first place? There was obviously much more to his boss than he knew.

  Eugene’s brow furrowed. Curiosity suddenly welled up within him and nearly overwhelmed him. What could be on that program? He had to know! The next time Mr. Whittaker was away, he’d go up to the office, get the key, open the bookcase, and . . .

  “What am I doing?” he said aloud. He examined himself a
nd was surprised to see his hands curled into fists, hear his breath whistle through gritted teeth, and feel his heart pound in his chest. He willed himself to calm down. When he regained composure, he had a startling thought: perhaps he wasn’t that different from Miss Kendall after all.

  He shuddered, shook his head, took a deep breath, did his best to wipe clean the memory of the past few moments, turned out the lights, and left the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Richard Maxwell hated Fridays. And Saturdays.

  More specifically, he hated Fridays when there was a holiday at Odyssey Middle School. Saturdays he just hated generally.

  He worked part time at Odyssey Retirement Home. It was a quiet place most days, the exceptions being Saturday, when visitors came, and Friday school holidays, when even more visitors came. Like today, for instance. The schedule at the front desk revealed that a church youth group was coming to sit with the home’s denizens, which meant he would have to be on his best behavior. He preferred the rest of the week—except for Saturday—and no holidays. He could get more work done that way.

  He crossed the lobby, heading for the janitor’s closet and his cleanup cart. He stopped at the door, ran his hand through his thick brown hair, and checked his reflection in the door’s window. He was good looking, no doubt about that—perfect nose, perfect teeth, and soft brown eyes to match his hair. I’m so pretty, I should kiss myself, he thought, then laughed aloud at his own joke and opened the door. Too bad he had to wear that silly uniform, but it helped him blend in and get his work done without drawing any attention to himself.

  He loaded up the cart with cleaning supplies, dust cloths, and trash bags, then chuckled. Work. If the management knew what kind of “work” he was really doing at the home, they wouldn’t let him anywhere near the place.

  The setup was so sweet. The old geezers just left their stuff lying around—easy pickings. Most of them didn’t even notice their stuff was missing. If they did notice, all he had to do was make them think they had forgotten where they put their things, then get them to obsess about something else. Like that cranky biddy Mrs. Hooper, with her plants and her whining about how her daughter never visited her, and all the while, she left completely unguarded her real valuables—jewelry, knickknacks, and cash.

  Still, he took only a little at a time and always things that could be easily “misplaced.” He pocketed the cash and fenced the jewelry and knickknacks with Myron. Or what was he calling himself now? Jellyfish? It worked like a charm; he was making cash, and no one suspected a thing.

  Richard heard a commotion in the lobby and poked his head out of the janitorial closet. The church youth group had arrived. An older guy with a bushy mustache and round glasses handed out visiting assignments to the kids. Bunch of do-gooders, he thought. He was about to retreat into the closet when he recognized one of them—a cute, young, freckled brunette. “Donna Barclay,” he muttered. “She used to hang around with my sister.”

  Richard watched as Donna got a room number from the old guy, then turned away, looking nervous. She crossed the lobby toward his door. He was just about to open it and say something to her when another cute, young, glasses-wearing brunette about Donna’s age rushed up to her. He quickly closed the door so they wouldn’t see him but left it open a crack so he could still see and hear them.

  “Donna!”

  “Oh, hey, Lucy. Who did you get?”

  Lucy held out her paper. “Mr. Morton in room 307. I’ve visited him before.”

  “You have? Is he nice?”

  Lucy nodded. “Yeah, he’s wonderful. He’s ninety-seven years old and has all kinds of stories to tell.”

  Donna took a deep breath. “I’ve never done this before. I’m kind of nervous. I hope I got someone who isn’t too—you know—old.”

  Lucy grinned. “Who did you get?”

  Donna looked at her paper. “Umm. Room 754. Mary Hooper.”

  Lucy’s grin faded. “Oh.”

  Donna looked up, brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘oh’? Have you visited her before?”

  “Well . . . once.”

  “And?”

  Lucy’s face turned red. “And . . . I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

  Donna grabbed Lucy’s arm. “If you probably shouldn’t say anything, then you probably should say something. What do you know about Mary Hooper? You’re making me nervous!”

  Lucy patted Donna’s hand. “Don’t be nervous. She was just a little difficult. Please don’t make me say anything else. I’m sure deep down inside she’s a very nice lady.” She paused. “Deep down inside—really deep.”

  Donna paled. “Uh-oh.”

  “Maybe it was just me. She might like you.” Lucy moved off, calling back as she went. “And whatever you do, don’t touch her flowers and plants!”

  Donna sighed deeply and stared at the paper again. Richard waited until he was sure Lucy had gone and then opened the door to the janitor’s closet. “Hey, Donna.”

  “Huh?” She jumped, startled, then she recognized him. A look of extreme annoyance crossed her face. “Richard. What are you doing here?”

  “I work here part time. I’m what you’d call an orderly.” He pulled out his cart and closed the closet door.

  Donna eyed the cart. “You look more like a janitor.”

  He shrugged. “One person’s janitor is another person’s orderly. You visiting with the church group?”

  “Obviously.”

  “What room are you looking for?”

  “Seven fifty-four.”

  “It’s around this way. Not far. Come on, I’ll walk you.” He started pushing his cart.

  Donna stayed put. “You don’t have to,” she said coldly.

  “I’m going that way anyway.” He stopped. “Look, I know you and my sister don’t hang around anymore, but I’m just trying to help.”

  She sighed and slowly joined him. They headed down the hallway together in silence, walking past walls painted with colorful flowers, butterflies, and rainbows but rendered bland and joyless by the clinical, fluorescent lighting. He saw her glance at the paper again. “Did you say seven fifty-four?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  This ought to be fun, he thought. He whistled softly and shook his head. “Mary Hooper. What’re you visiting her for?”

  Her worried expression returned. “’Cause I got her name. Mr. Whittaker passed out residents’ names when we got here.”

  “Is that it? You’re visiting her just because you got her name?”

  Now her face turned red. “Well, no. I mean, I want to talk to her and, you know, get to know her and be her friend and . . . stuff.”

  He smirked. “You’re going to try to be friends with Mary Hooper? Forget it.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause she don’t want friends.”

  She frowned. “I can try, can’t I?”

  He chuckled. “Sure you can try . . . but trying ain’t doing.” He rolled his cart to a stop in front of a wood-paneled door. “Here’s her room.” He grinned. “Do I get a kiss good night?”

  She scowled. “Get lost, Richard.”

  He laughed and started pushing his cart again, calling back the way Lucy did. “By the way, Donna, don’t touch her flowers and plants!” As he rounded a corner, he heard her take a deep breath and then knock on the door. “Give that about a half hour,” he muttered, “and Mary Hooper will be ready to pluck again.” He chuckled softly.

  As it turned out, it took only twenty minutes.

  Richard returned with his cart just in time to see Donna burst out of Mrs. Hooper’s room and run down the hallway. He smiled and again felt the bag filled with “goodies” he had lifted from several other residents. He wheeled his cart toward room 754.

  Easy pickings.

  Later that afternoon, a pair of gray eyes watched a good-looking young man with thick brown hair and wearing a janitor’s uniform leave through the back door of Odyssey Retirement Home. The young man carried a small backpac
k, which he put in a carryall container attached to the back of a motor scooter. He climbed on the scooter, started it up, and took off.

  The gray eyes belonged to Philip Glossman, who sat in his car across the street from the retirement home’s back door and observed Maxwell ride off. Glossman didn’t follow; he didn’t need to. He had already followed Maxwell three times and knew what he had in the backpack and where he was going with it. Glossman took a small notepad and pen from his pocket and recorded his observations.

  “Stealing from old folks,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’ll almost be a pleasure to hand this little twerp over to him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Two weeks had passed since Glossman’s surprise visit to Whit’s End. Connie’s memory of the unpleasant events of that afternoon and evening had faded somewhat in the discovery emporium’s usual daily hustle and bustle. There were no more late nights for Whit or private meetings between him and Eugene. Connie had told Whit about Glossman on the morning following his visit, and he responded with mild interest.

  This morning, Friday, Whit had taken a bunch of church kids, who were on a school holiday, to the Odyssey Retirement Home to visit the folks there. Whit and the kids had come back only a few minutes ago, and Whit left almost immediately to run some errands. It was late afternoon, and Connie and Eugene were slowly making the rounds, closing down unused rooms and attractions. She went into the Train Room to shut the train off and found Donna Barclay sitting alone watching the tiny cars go around the tracks. “Donna?”

  “Hi, Connie.”

  “I thought you’d gone home. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just thinking.”

  “Didn’t you go to the retirement home today?”

  Donna nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking about.”

  Connie also sat. “What happened?”

  One of the little engines whistled. Donna blurted out, “The person I got was horrible!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah! Her name is Mary Hooper, and she’s a mean, cruel, bitter old woman. And Lucy knew about her too but didn’t tell me!”