by G. M. Ford
"Might as well."
"The mean streets feel safer already."
"Thanks. Nice talkin' to ya, Charlotte."
"Harriet wanted me to tell you that Mr. Batista's condition has been upgraded all the way to stable. He seems to have staged a somewhat miraculous recovery,"
Why wasn't I surprised? "Thanks again."
"She said Mr. Batista seems to be quite lucid except that he doesn't seem to be aware that he's free to leave. He wanted Harriet to post bond for him or to call you and get you to do it."
"Ralph's used to being in jail, not the hospital," I said. "What say, for the time being, we don't dissuade him of that little notion?"
"Whatever you say."
"Thanks for the help."
"Good to have you back, Leo."
Next, I tried the pay phone at George and Harold's flop. I let it ring about forty times. Nothing. No chance everybody was up and out by ten-thirty a.m. There were people in that building who weren't finished throwing up by this time of day. Somebody must have torn the phone from the wall again. I swilled the rest of my coffee and headed for the shower.
The night wind had churned the overhead blanket of sludge, mixing it, breaking it in places, sliding it east out over the Cascades like a cavalcade of dirty elephants joined trunk to tail.
I parked the Fiat on Eastlake and walked the half block to the Zoo. I stood inside the battered brown door and waited for my eyes to adjust. An ornate, carved bar ran the length of the front room and around the comer toward the Johns. The tables on the left were deserted. The next room back contained a green acre of snooker table and, farther back yet and around the corner, more tables, the dollar pool tables, and the little stage.
George, Harold, and the rest of the gang were at the far end of the bar, suckin' 'em down. The place was rilled with shouts and laughter. The boys were the very models of consistency. They faced both triumph and tragedy in precisely the same fashion. While others worked in oils or stone, they had elevated to an art form the process of perpetual swillage. It was after eleven, so you could make book that they'd already had three, four beers just to tune the system a little smidgen to get them vertical, as it were. And since they'd ventured outdoors at such an ungodly hour, it was also safe to assume that they'd all had a couple of stiff midmorning bracers usually a peppermint schnapps or two would do the trick here. Something to keep the gaze steady and the chin firm on their way to the Zoo. After lunch and its obligatory cocktails, they would recharge their batteries with an afternoon pick-me-up or four around the snooker table, which, all things being equal, would melt right into happy hour, where, as luck would have it, all semblance of moderation could safely be jettisoned. On their way out at closing time, they'd snag a halfrack of beer and split it up among them, everyone pushing three or four deep into his pockets. That way they were primed and ready for morning. You had to admire the fearful symmetry of it all.
Harold saw me first. "Leo!" he shouted. All heads turned my way. The gang was all here. George, Norman, and Harold held down their deeded stools while Earlene and Mary leaned on the far end of the bar, blocking the gate. Billy Bob Fung was engaged in a spirited game of snooker with the Speaker, whose omnipresent sandwich board made leaning over the table nearly impossible. He played exclusively with the bridge. Today's missive read:
"You'd Probably Drive Better with That Cellular Phone up Your Ass."
"You guys heard?" I asked. It was a dumb question. The bum telegraph worked a whole lot better than any telephone, cellular or otherwise. They'd known for hours.
"We just got off the phone with old Ralphie boy," Mary said.
George ordered me a drink. I shook it off.
"The whitecoats have got him. They'll stretch his brain," Norman intoned solemnly.
"They'll have to find the fucker first," said George.
They yukked it up. Billy Bob banged the butt of his cue on the floor and hopped about like a demented elf. The rest of them dissolved in a wild backslapping frenzy.
"They'll mount him on a board and label his parts," Norman said as the din receded.
"They better get a big label," Earlene slurred.
This, once again, sent the crew into gales of laughter and, of course, called for another round. Among the fairer of the homeless species, Ralph was renowned for being, how shall we say, nobly appointed. I heaved a sigh. I wasn't sure I could sit through that discussion again. Harold, however, saved the day. "Tell us the story, Leo," he said.
I tried to beg off but didn't stand a chance. Earlene strolled over, her long face resolute. She took me by the arm and, with great pageantry, led me over and offered me Ralph's stool. This was the highest compliment a man could be afforded in these parts, the alcoholic equivalent of being named a Peer of the Realm. I leaned one cheek on the royal roost and laid out the whole story for them. They listened, spellbound, interrupting only to call for subsequent rounds at each turn of the action. Certainly a story of this magnitude had to be properly washed down.
"We're goin' down to see him," said Mary when I'd finished. "They won't let us in till one," said George.
"They're waiting for me in there," said Norman.
George reached out and put a hand on his arm. "You don't gotta go, Normal. Ralph'll understand. He knows how you are with hospitals. You stay here with Billy Bob. Play some snooker. Before you know it, we'll be back with Ralph."
I tried to squash this idea about them returning with Ralph.
' 'I think maybe the cops are holding him for a few days as a material witness," I lied.
"Then you better come with us," George said. "Help us get past the bulls."
"I'd like to," I said. "But I've got an appointment this afternoon."
"You workin' again?" asked Harold.
"Yeah. A little something for Jed."
George leaned in close. "Anything for us?"
"I doubt it. I'm gonna be looking for a lost librarian."
"You're shittin' me," George said.
"I wish."
"Breakin' yourself back in slow, eh? It's a good idea, Leo. Don't wanna be hasty about anything," George said with a straight face.
"Especially for a guy with a bad ass," added Harold.
George wasn't finished. "Yep, that's it. One little step at a time on the road to recovery. First the case of the larcenous librarian. Next week, who knows, maybe you can find you a florist or something."
This one reduced them to jelly. The Speaker scratched.
Mary choked half a Seven and Seven out through her nose and out onto the bar.
"Gonna find a florist," Billy Bob Fung shrieked, hopping about. "Gonna find a florist."
They were still whooping it up when I reached the door.
7
"I don't like it," he said. With a flick of his fingers, he sailed my card back across the desk, where it skipped once on the black glass surface and settled neatly between my thighs. Picturing what I was going to look like retrieving it, I left it there.
T. J. Former, deputy director and CEO of the city library system, looked more like a high school basketball coach than a librarian. His thick white hair was cropped military short. A pair of woolly black eyebrows accentuated his even features and suggested a youthful strength and vigor belied by the color of his hair.
"That's understandable, Mr. Former. Private detectives are usually part of most everybody's worst-case scenario."
"If we've got a crime here, we've got a crime here. What can I say? It's unfortunate, but it happens. I'll take the responsibility. That's part of what they pay me for. But now that we know ... let's do the right thing, for God's sake. Let's cut our losses. Let's get the police involved. Anything else, no matter how well intentioned, just smacks of coverup as far as I'm concerned. Makes me feel like Nixon."
"As I understand it, there are political concerns at work here."
He dismissed me with a wave. "Political concerns are not within the scope of my charge, Mr. Waterman. I'm an administrator. If I do my j
ob properly, nobody even knows I'm here. If not " He let it ride.
"If you don't mind the advice, Mr. Former, don't be in any hurry to volunteer for the blame. Trust me. I have some experience in these matters and with these people. If this whole thing can't be put to rest cleanly and privately, the people who called me into this will see to it that you and the blame will be on a first-name basis."
He thought this over. "Your background would lend itself to knowing about that, now, wouldn't it?"
"Been checking into my background?"
"I made a few calls."
"And?"
He considered his reply. "A mixed bag."
"Such is life," I said.
"On one hand, I'm told you have a real knack for finding people who don't want to be found. They also say you can keep your mouth shut. They say your family connections in the city give you a big edge."
I waited.
"On the other hand " He let it hang. From under the desk blotter he produced an eight-by-ten glossy. I didn't even have to look. I knew what it was. " there's this," he finished.
He held the famous picture of me and a couple of local ladies of the evening cavorting in the fountain of the Olympic Four Seasons Hotel.
"A friend of mine over at the Times sent this to me."
I didn't bother looking at it. "It's a long story," I said.
"Undoubtedly."
He turned the picture his way and studied it closely. I began to count the ceiling tiles.
"Now," he said. "I can understand the getups on the girls here. Tools of the trade, I suppose. But what in hell are you doing with those ... those ..."
"Accoutrements," I offered.
He gave me a thin smile. "Ah, accoutrements. Well?" he pressed.
"You had to be there."
He held my eyes as he slipped the picture back under the blotter.
"And what do these political types imagine that you can do by yourself that the whole police department can't?"
"All I'm going to do, Mr. Former, is poke around a little."
"Poke what?"
"Well, first I want to talk to the people she worked for and with. See if there was any hint that maybe something in her life had changed recently. Like maybe there was some sort of a crisis in her life. That kind of thing."
"Then?"
"Then I'm going to see if I can get into her apartment."
He shook his head slightly. "I think a couple of the women in her department already tried that."
"Did they get in?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think so."
"How well did you know Karen Mendolson?" I asked.
"I wouldn't know her if I passed her on the street." He sensed my surprise. "If you count part-timers and volunteers, this library employs the better part of six hundred people." ?Again I was surprised. "Six hundred librarians?"
"Oh, no. Of the full-time staff "
"How many is that?" I interrupted.
"Three-hundred fifty, give or take. Of that number, no more than a hundred or so are actually librarians. You know, people with degrees in library science."
"Karen Mendolson?"
"No." He tapped a green file on the left side of his desk. "U Dub. Business administration, nineteen seventy-five."
I held out my hand.
He placed his palm on the file. "Mrs. Franchini has one for you. Mrs. Donna is Karen's direct supervisor. She can tell you a great deal more about Karen." He checked his watch. "She's expecting us now."
I took this to mean I was supposed to move. You learn to make those kinds of inferences when you're a detective. Former followed me out the door and down the bluecarpeted hall toward the elevators. Here on the fifth floor of the library, any vestiges of a public building had been left below. Up here, we could have been striding down any corporate corridor anywhere in the world. None of that smeared quality, the greasy residue of too many grubby hands, that one finds in public buildings. Up here all was shiny and clean.
Donna Franchini was waiting outside the elevator as the door slid open. As promised, she was holding a manila file folder. She was a tall woman, nearly my height, in a crisp white blouse and ankle-length denim jumper and a pair of sturdy black shoes the size of cinder blocks. She was impatiently tapping her right foot. Her long gray hair was twisted on top of her head in some sort of tight braid.
As she looked me over through a pair of oval glasses, her expression suggested acute gastrointestinal distress. Without either fanfare or introduction, she said, "Follow me," turned on her rubber heel, and started down the long hall. I stood still.
Halfway down, she realized I wasn't in tow and turned back.
"Are you coming or not?"
"Not," I said.
"What?"
I stood my ground. "You heard me. Not."
She put her hands on her ample hips. "What's the matter with you?"
"Depends on who you ask.""
Reluctantly, she stiff-legged it back my way. "Do you have a problem?" I kept my mouth shut.
When she got close enough, I said, "Why don't we start over?" I stuck my hand out. "Leo Waterman. Pleased to meet you."
She looked at me like I was a tax assessor covered with shit.
"Don't be infantile," she said.
"Just polite," I corrected.
"And why should I be polite to you, Mr. Waterman?" she sneered.
"Because I don't work for you, and I don't have to put up with your crap, and maybe because we're also not married and I'm not trading you occasional bad sex for putting up with your lousy attitude." She opened her mouth. I talked louder. "Or, even better, I know this is weird, but maybe just because that's just how human beings ought to treat each other." At least she'd stopped tapping her damn foot.
"Are you finished?"
"For the time being."
"My office is "
"I don't want to go to your office. I want to see Karen Mendolson's coworkers. The people she spent her day with."
She tapped the folder. "I am Ms. Mendolson's direct supervisor. Any and all relevant information... "
"Let's call Mr. Former," I suggested.
Gazing deep into each other's eyes, we shared a long Maalox moment. She took a deep breath. "I assure you, Mr. Waterman "
"How did she manage to siphon that much money from what is supposed to be a well-organized public institution?"
She stood straighter, as if she'd rehearsed this in front of the mirror. She checked the hall for ears. None. She lowered her voice.
"She was extremely lucky. We were in the midst of a Transitional Administrative Realignment. Duties and responsibilities were being shuffled so the normal system of checks and balance was somewhat askew. Were that not the case, it would have been impossible."
"And?"
"We operate from a computerized system with an acquisitions module. She set up a phony vendor with a post office box number. Then she ordered books from that vendor. The books, of course, never came, but she told the system they had, and the system then wrote a check to the vendor. Once the check arrived, she would delete the order I record from the system."
"How could that be possible?''
"It was possible because during our Transitional Administrative Realignment the same person had control of both the vendor files and the payment files. Under normal circumstances, those duties are quite separate and distinct."
"How long did this go on?"
"Nearly nine months."
"Long realignment," I commented.
"We are a very complex institution," she responded.
I held out my hand. "Fortner said you had a folder for me?"
She wanted to refuse, but changed her mind, reluctantly handing it over after an intense inner debate.
"Her coworkers," I said. "Could I see them now, please?"
She pushed out a gust of a sigh that mussed my hair and again strode off down the hall. This time, I tagged along.
She turned left at the end, and then quickly left again into a
large office area consisting of perhaps eight separate work areas. Her heels beat time down the narrow aisle to the windows on the north side of the building. Two young women were working in the area, both in their thirties. One was blond running toward red. Svelte, athletic looking, in a black knit dress. The other had dark hair worn to the shoulder, black bangs cut straight across her forehead. Both visibly stiffened as Franchini blustered into the room.
"Mr. Waterman is looking into the Mendolson affair," Franchini whispered. "He wishes to speak with you." With that, she folded her arms across her chest and sidled over toward the corner.
"Would you mind if I spoke to them alone?" I asked.
Minded wasn't the half of it. "I am the super--"
I kept saying, "I know. I know," as she sputtered her way through another public self-assessment. We shared another touching moment before she shouldered me aside and marched out the door. We all watched her go.
"You guys on work release?" I asked.
"What?" said the brunette. She wore a blue sweater over a full-length flowered skirt.
"From jail," I said. "You know, where they, like, let you out so you can work. I figured a body'd have to be sentenced by a judge to work for that woman."
Both women hid smiles. We introduced ourselves. The athlete was Gina Alleman. The brunette was DeeAnn Williams.
"I think if I tell you what I'm supposed to do, it might make it easier for us to talk." They seemed agreeable, so I told them the whole thing. The politics. How going to the police was our last option. That the best thing that could happen to Karen was for us to find her.
Finally I asked, "Can somebody define Transitional Administrative Alignment for me?" This time they didn't bother to hide the smiles.
Alleman jumped in. ' 'It means that Barb Watson had a baby last--what?" She looked over at Williams. "May?"
"End of April."
"A very difficult birth," Alleman went on. "For a while it didn't look like either of them were going to make it."
"She's still not back," Williams explained.
"What were her duties?"
"She did payment files and order records."
"And Karen?"
"She ordered books and kept the vendor records."