Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  =22=

  An hour later, I left the Herald's building, the air temperature feeling like seventy and still putting the lie to October on the calendar. Brockton being closer than Plymouth Mills, I got on the Southeast Expressway to Route 128 and eventually Route 24. Three miles after taking the second Brockton exit, I found the newspaper where Norman Elmendorf had worked, housed in an old granite elephant that could pass for a public library.

  Locking the Prelude, I stuck under my arm the portfolio briefcase I'd been using. Inside the building's front doors was a fiftyish guy wearing a blue security uniform who couldn't have looked more bored if he'd been snoring. I showed him my identification, saying I was there to do a routine check on a former employee now applying for a job with a client of mine.

  The guard picked up a telephone, dialed three digits, and passed my information on to somebody named "Betty."

  Nodding and hanging up, he said, "Take a seat. Somebody'll be right with you."

  "Thanks."

  "Hot as blazes for October, isn't it?"

  "Global warming," I said.

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  A middle-aged woman in a hound's-tooth suit came through the door to the right of the guard and introduced herself as Betty without giving a last name. She asked me to follow her.

  On the other side of the door, the city room wasn't exactly bedlam because it wasn't exactly populated. Three college-aged kids huddled around a single computer monitor, the cables twisting and lifting up through the ceiling like Jack's beanstalk. One woman Betty's age played hunt-and-peck at another terminal, muttering under her breath. A dozen more computer stations were empty, four of them apparently cleaned out.

  At the back of the city room, Betty knocked once under a brown plastic plaque that said MANAGING EDITOR, then opened the door for me without getting an answer from inside. I went through, she closing behind me. The man at the desk swung around from another computer screen, some henscratched notes in a small spiral notebook next to the keyboard. "And you'd be?"

  "John Cuddy." As he stood, I extended my right hand to shake.

  Taking it, he said, "Mike Yoder. Sit."

  Yoder was about five-eight and shaped like a pear, the sloping shoulders under a V-neck sweater a good foot narrower than the middle of him. His thinning hair was gray and his hands were heavily veined, but he had a twinkle in the eye that made him seem younger than the sixty or so I'd have estimated.

  Dipping into the portfolio, I took out the PERSONNEL RECORD REQUEST—also thanks to my wizard from the copy center—with a version of Norman Elmendorf's signature at the bottom. "I'm looking into the work background of a former employee here."

  I passed the request to Yoder. He glanced at the signature area before reading the rest of it. Then he reached over to the telephone next to him and pressed a button. The door opened almost immediately, and Yoder said, "Betty, get me Norm Elmendorf's personnel file, will you?"

  A hesitation, then, "Right away,” and the door closed again.

  Yoder said, "Mind if I ask what this is all about?"

  "Mr. Elmendorf's applied for a job with a client of mine."

  "I got that much from security via Betty."

  "Not quite. I didn't give the guard or Betty Mr. Elmendorf's name."

  "No," said Yoder. "No, you didn't. Who's your client?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  Yoder was taking that equably as Betty knocked and entered. She gave him a red manila folder and left without looking at me.

  As the door closed, Yoder began fussing around in the file, scouting for something, then held my form close to a document, glancing back and forth. Putting my request at the front of the folder, he left it open on his desk. "I'm no expert, of course, but that looks like Nor1n's signature. Can you tell me what sort of job he's applying for?"

  "Photography work, on assignment?

  Yoder seemed to gauge something. "He's getting around better, then?"

  "The braces help, he told us."

  "Us."

  "My client."

  Like a perplexed kid, Yoder tugged on his earlobe. "Mr. Cuddy, I know damned well Norm isn't applying for a newspaper job, because if he were, you wouldn't be sitting in front of me."

  "Really?"

  "Rea1ly. Some old hand like me would be on my phone there, getting what was needed without wasting gas and tires."

  "My client's a little more formal. Plus, this way they have me to sue if I screw up."

  Yoder seemed to gauge something again. "What is it you want to know?"

  "Anything you can tell me about how he was as an employee."

  "How he,was'?"

  "You were his boss, right?"

  Yoder didn't nod or shake his head.

  I said, "He's been upfront with us about the drinking."

  "He has."

  "Yes. In a program for some time, now."

  "I'm glad."

  I leaned forward, lathering my hands with invisible soap.

  "Look, Mr. Yoder, it's like this. You can tell me about Mr. Elmendorf, and I can go back to my client with a report that says it's okay to hire the guy. Or, you can not tell me about him, in which case I give my client that instead, and I'm guessing Elmendorf loses out on a job he could really use." I leaned back. "Your call."

  Yoder watched me some. "You've met Norm, then."

  "I have."

  "And his daughter?"

  "Kira."

  A little softening. "That girl's had to put up with more than most."

  "Mr. Elmendorf told me his wife went south just as he got back from overseas."

  The softening stopped, like a seized movie reel. "And you've checked on that?"

  "On his wife leaving him?"

  "No. The military stuff."

  "Not yet. This kind of thing, I generally start with previous civilian employers."

  The managing editor fussed some more with the file in front of him. "I could show you this, but I can tell you straight out that Norm was never overseas."

  I felt my eyes closing for longer than a blink. "No Persian Gulf."

  "Not for us, not for the Army." Then a different tone of voice, almost nostalgic. "Norm was a damned good photographer, Mr. Cuddy. Lots of people can work the equipment, learn the technical side. Norm, though, he had the eye. Could pull up to a fire or accident scene, and before he was out of the car, he'd be framing a shot in his head. And damned if his first photo didn't turn out better than anybody else's three rolls. Then the troubles started at home."

  "What kind of troubles?"

  Yoder stopped, and I was afraid I'd pushed him too far. After a moment, though, he said, "Norm's wife got tired of the crazy hours he kept. You have to understand, Norm wanted to be the first one on the scene every time out, so he didn't mind us calling him, day or night. Eventually it got to his marriage, and when she started packing, Norm started drinking?

  "And all this was . . . ?"

  "About the time of Desert Storm in late ninety, early ninety-one. It was half my fault, I suppose. Publisher wanted us to cover the hell out of the homefront, kind of a miniature W-W-Two—clear enemy, real heroes—a 'good war,' to paraphrase Studs Terkel."

  "How was it your fault, though?"

  "I kind of gave Norm his head, let him shoot to his heart's content. He had a pager, so we could always reach him wherever he was, and I guess the worse hours made the marriage break up a little sooner than it would have otherwise."

  "But only a little sooner."

  "Yeah, probably." Yoder tugged on the earlobe again. "But her finally leaving sent Norm well over the edge and deep into the bottle. The man got the notion that he'd served in the Gulf. Norm had covered enough of the guys—and women—going over there, had seen the letters and videos to the families. Point is, he knew enough about the war to talk a good game, so long as the people buying him drinks didn't require too many details."

  "And that cost him the job?"

  "Pretty directly. Almost
crashed the newspaper's car into a school bus rushing off somewhere half-crocked. I had to fire him, Norm sitting right in that chair where you are when I told him."

  "What brought on the physical disability?"

  "A fall. Kira contacted us about it, but his health benefits here had long since expired, and he hadn't used COBRA."

  "COBRA?"

  "Acronym, as in the snake. It's a way you can extend your health coverage from your most recent employer, but it's expensive as hell."

  "Have you seen Elmendorf himself lately?"

  "Heard from him on and off since . . . since he was sitting in that chair. Always by telephone, usually more than half-crocked." Yoder stared at me. "I'm glad to hear Norm's on the wagon now, but it doesn't sound like he's aware the Desert Storm stuff wasn't reality for him."

  "From what I know, you're right."

  A final tug on the earlobe. "Mr. Cuddy, I probably haven't sounded like much of a recommendation for Norm, but he really was great with the camera, one of the best I've ever seen. If you can see your way clear to make your client understand that, then I won't feel as though I've wasted my breath on you."

  "Mr. Yoder, believe me. You've been a big help."

  * * *

  At the forlorn mall north of Plymouth Mills, I cruised the haphazard rows of parking until I heard someone tap a car horn twice. Then I took the next available space, got out of the Prelude, and looked around me.

  It was a different vehicle all right, but another Lincoln Continental. Yellow, with Florida plates.

  I went to the passenger side and slid in, the upholstery as supple as Primo's own model. "What's the matter, you don't believe in experimentation?"

  The toothpick rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You told me, rent a car. I'm used to the way these here handle."

  "It sticks out like a sore thumb."

  "That's where you're wrong, Cuddy. You were right about not taking mine, though. No place to sit at that fucking condo complex except inside what you're driving, and no place to park it except on one of those little—what did you call them?"

  "Leaf roads?"

  "Yeah, leaves." He looked down at his suit, bits and pieces of dead foliage sticking to the pants and sleeves. "Let me tell you about leaves."

  "Before you do, did anybody spot you?"

  "Spot me'? Hell, no. That's what I mean about this Lincoln here. After I phoned you yesterday, I saw this friend of ours, has a rent-a-car agency. I tell him, 'I want a Continental.' He hits his computer thing and says, 'Only one I got has Florida plates on it.' I think, great, anybody notices the car on the street, they'll think it belongs to somebody's parents, up to visit the grandkids, you know? So I tell him,

  'Fill out the paperwork.' Then this morning, I drive it down to Plymouth whatever-the-fuck and park and watch for nobody to be around before I walk up that hill you told me about. Where I sit down in the trees for about eight hours with all kinds of animal shit around me and leaves that stick to you like fucking Velcro."

  I looked at his sleeves and cuffs. "Nettles, probably."

  "Nettles? Is that where that word comes from, like somebody pisses you off?"

  "I think so."

  "Well, anyway, it's gonna take a fucking forest tire to clean this suit, so I hope I got what you need." Zuppone reached into an inside pocket and came out with a small pad. "You want to read this or have me read it to you?"

  "You can read it."

  Primo squared around. "All right, I'm in the trees at seven-oh-three—no, seven-thirty.” I remembered Zuppone once telling me about his dyslexia. "I take out the binoculars, sight them in. It already feels like fucking July at seven-forty, when this colored kid comes out the third unit—third from the left, number 43—then walks the way I drove in till I can't see him anymore."

  Jamey Robinette. "Catching a bus for school."

  "Where the fuck does he go to?"

  "Tabor Academy."

  Zuppone looked at me in disbelief. "That's like a college-prep place, right'?"

  "Right."

  "Can't be. This kid was done up like a gang-banger."

  "Probably has a locker there, put on the blazer and old school tie before classes."

  "No wonder we're losing ground to the Germans and the Japs."

  "Primo . . ."

  "What?"

  "Skip it. Go on with what happened."

  "All right, let me see . . . Seven-forty-five, the door to the first unit—number 41—opens up, and this couple comes out onto the stoop there. He's kind of tall, and she's kind of short, both dark-haired. He kisses her, she hands him his lunch bag, Ozzie and fucking Harriet for the nineties."

  The Stepanians. "Then what?"

  "Ozzie drives off, and I notice this short guy in a gardener's uniform, who's raking the lawn like he was maybe gonna have surgery performed in the grass there."

  Paulie Fogerty. "He see you?"

  "Of course not. After the grass, it was the bushes. I swear, I thought the kid would shake some trees, make more work for himself, he seemed to like it so much. He turned my way once, I put the binoculars on his face. Hard to say for sure—he was wearing this baseball cap—but I think he's retarded."

  "He is."

  Primo shook his head. "Except for Rake-boy, it's pretty quiet till noon, when a girl comes by in a car. She goes up and knocks on the fourth unit—number 44. This other girl with hair like Madonna answers the door. From the clothes and all, both of them look like punk rockers."

  Jude and Kira. "The girl in the car stay long?"

  “Two minutes. Harriet from 41 comes over—doesn't cut across the grass, either. She walks all the way down the path to the sidewalk, then the sidewalk till the path to number 44. Harriet knocks, and goes in as the two girls come out and drive off." Zuppone glanced at me. "This Madonna, she got a yard-ape out of wedlock or something?"

  "Sick father."

  Primo looked thoughtful, then said, "The girls, they're gone for an hour. When they come back, the one with the car drops Madonna off, then Harriet comes out and goes back to her place, path-to-sidewalk-to-path again. I got the impression she's kind of repressed, you know what I mean?”

  "Then what?"

  "Then nothing while I'm using a dead branch to dig myself a fucking hole to take a leak in. Two-forty-five, OJ. Einstein comes walking home to number 43 from school. A colored woman leaves his place, goes out to a car's been sitting there all morning, and drives away."

  Tangela Robinette.

  Then Zuppone perked up a little. "Tedious shit till now, I grant you, but all of a sudden, some jungle music comes on."

  "Jungle music."

  Primo looked at me. "That rap shit. What do I have to do, hum a few bars?"

  "How could you tell it was rap?"

  "How could I tell? Hey-ey-ey, Cuddy, I might not give two cents for a truckload of the shit, but I know rap when I hear it."

  "And you could hear the music all the way up the hill?"

  "Fucking A. Then a minute later, it drops off. Matter of seconds after that, Madonna comes out her front door, only she's dressed different this time."

  "Different how?"

  "She's just got a T-shirt and shorts on, real pale legs, and two different-colored socks, blue on the right foot, red on the left."

  "Where does she go?"

  Zuppone grinned. "Next door to O.J.'s house, quick as she can, across the grass."

  I looked at him.

  Primo said, "Without knocking, his door opens, and Madonna slips inside."

  "For how long'?"

  "I made it half an hour. Then she comes out and slips back into her place. Only thing . . ."

  "What?"

  The grin grew broader. "Now the blue sock's on the left foot, and the red's on the right."

  I thought about it. "The music's the signal."

  "That's what I'm seeing too."

  "Mom is gone—"

  "—and the coast is fucking clear." Zuppone stopped grinning. "So, does this m
ulticultural soap opera shit help?"

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe? What's with fucking 'maybe'? I sat in nature's toilet for going on eight hours, it better be better than 'maybe.' "

  I said, "You see anything else?"

  "No. I left before Mom got back or Ozzie from 41 there came home from work."

  "Nothing from 42?"

  "Which is where I gotta figure DiRienzi was hiding, right?"

  "Primo, you didn't go down there, did you?"

  A hurt look. "What, you think I got rocks in my head? The feds fucking bobble the ball with the guy, they're gonna babysit the place, hoping he comes back or somebody who knows him shows up."

  I resisted the temptation to rub my skull behind the ear where Kourmanos or Braverman slugged me Friday night.

  "And that's everything you saw?"

  "Yeah." Zuppone folded over the pad, stuck it back in his jacket. "So what do I tell Milwaukee?"

  "What do they know so far?"

  I saw some anger rise in Primo, but he shook it off.

  "What they know is that number-one son and a pretty good fucking gun named Coco got on the silver bird Thursday P.M., called home twice, and ain't been heard from since early yesterday."

  I said, "And your 'coordinator'?"

  "He's getting nervous. Real nervous. Which ought to fucking terrify me, but I'm so numb, I don't have the sense to be scared." Zuppone glanced away from me. "Which scares me even more, tell you the truth."

  * * *

  The Tides was nearly empty on a Monday afternoon, and I didn't see Edith "Edie” Quentin behind the deserted bar. As I took a stool down near the end, though, she came through the kitchen door, a distracted look on her face.

  "Lose something'?" I said.

  She started and turned, then recognized me.

  I shrugged. "Or maybe you were just trying to remember something?

  Edie didn't bite at that, either, before moving past the raw bar and toward the taps, using a damp towel to clean the metal posts. Sort of.

  I said, "Maybe something you forgot to tell me?"

  She concentrated on the towel, her lower lip curling. "I don't see what we have to talk about."

  "How about a Harpoon, then."

  Edie reached for a mug. "That's what I'm here for."

  As she set my ale down on the bar, I said, "You prefer 'Edie' over 'Edith,' I know, but do you still go by 'Quentin'?"