Читать книгу Out of Mind - Michael Burke - Страница 11

3

Louella Lafonte left me sitting at a table in the back of the room at LeRoy’s. I carried my half-finished martini to the end of the bar, where I could sit with my back to the wall and enjoy a view down a length of the polished mahogany. Midday was a quiet time, and LeRoy didn’t need help to serve the customers at the bar and those seated at the tables. The drinking crowd wouldn’t descend on the place until later. He was good at his job, but the only place the aging hippie with a long graying ponytail was really comfortable was behind the bar. Get him out in the open and he was a product of a different time—a Woodstock holdover, one of those guys who spent his younger days smoking pot at peace marches. He was a good confidante however, as bartenders should be, and I could share almost any secret with him. He dried his hands on a towel and tossed it under the bar.

“So Blue, she looked much too fancy for you. Talk her out of one of those diamonds and you could finally trade in that rusty old Beamer of yours.”

“That’s true, though I still ended up paying for the drinks. But,” I added, “I got a job.”

“Congratulations. Who do you have to shoot?”

“Can’t tell you—professional ethics and all. But I do need to use your computer.”

“Be my guest. You know where it is. The office door’s open.”

I spent the next half hour in LeRoy’s small office logged on to the KittyLuv site. There were pictures of kittens, of course, and also a mission statement, a motto—‘A home for every kitten’—testimonials, success stories, and the many opportunities to make a donation. KittyLuv was a charitable organization devoted to improving the lives of cute kittens. Volunteers would find abandoned kittens, and KittyLuv would place them into loving homes. Kittens all over the world qualified for this service, and the site displayed before and after pictures from Europe, South America, and Canada. The before picture would show a scraggly little creature huddling behind a garbage can. In the after, the same kitten was clean and trimmed, snuggled happily into someone’s lap. Each kitten had a name and a story. For a small donation the cute little fellow would send you a personal thank you note. There was a chronology of past and future events and fundraisers, which Mr. Lafonte presided over. A few were in town, and at a couple of nearby high schools and colleges, but the biggest were in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Louella Lafonte’s e-mail and password allowed me access to the site’s private area. I printed out a list of the office personnel: names, phone numbers, job titles, and a staff photo.

Back on my stool at the end of the bar, I asked LeRoy, “You know that KittyLuv outfit?”

“Of course. They’re just across the Park from here.”

“Do you know anybody there? Maybe some come in now and then to wash away the taste of cat hair.”

“A few drop by, but I don’t know the names, except for Samson, the chauffeur. He’s here quite a bit, and sometimes hits the strip club downstairs. I think he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall, handsome, long sandy hair, nice smile.”

I looked at the personnel list. “There’s a Samuel Wheatley, listed as chauffeur, must be him.”

“Probably—but he can be a problem. Get a few drinks in him and he gets rowdy. Once, I had to throw him out. He didn’t like that much.”

“But he still comes back.”

“Yeah. I don’t think he can resist the strippers.”

“How about the security guy, name’s Fitzhugh Botsby believe it or not. Does he come by?”

“No. Don’t know him. Some of the girls came by last week for a birthday party; some really cute gals, but I don’t know their names. Why do you ask?”

“My new boss wants me to do a little research—can’t say what—but I’m going to have to learn a bit about kittens.”

“Are you sure they hired the right guy?” LeRoy laughed as he walked away to attend to a blue-suited gentleman who wanted to get a head start on his drinking day.

I studied the list. Lawrence Lafonte was President. Three women were listed as his assistants: Sybil Troy, Rose Christensen, and Betty Whalen. A Vera Bishop was listed under accounting, along with Marcus Doolittle and Thalia Davidson. The office consisted of Mr. Lafonte, eight women and two men, and the chauffeur and security guy. The staff photos didn’t include Samson and Fitzhugh. There was a beaming Lawrence Lafonte surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women. I looked for Vera’s accounting coworkers and found Thalia, and I figured the bald guy in the back was Marcus Doolittle. It was time for me to take a look at their headquarters.

My eyes had adjusted to the dim interior light, and when I stepped out on the street, I was blinded by the brilliant August sun. I walked right into a policeman, knocking him against the wall.

“Well, Mr. Heron. I didn’t expect to bump into you this early in the day.”

The policeman was a policewoman, Kathy, Kathy MacGregor, Chief of Police. She was dressed in full uniform, her soft brown hair spilling out from under the billed cap and the brass buttons on her chest pressing forward to scatter beams of sunlight like cut diamonds. You’d think her looks would have exempted her from the position of Chief.

“Kathy, how are you?” I smiled.

“Fine,” she answered stiffly.

“Why so formal, Kathy my love? When am I going to see you?”

“You’re seeing me now.” The August heat was not melting the ice.

“How about Friday? We could have a nice dinner, go over to The Swan, see the show, and then spend the night together. Like old times.”

“Blue, I have to tell you something.”

I waited.

“At the Police conference last month. I met someone there.”

“Okay, so you met another nice policewoman. That’s fine, as long as we can get together for a threesome now and then.”

“Blue, you’re impossible!” Kathy sighed. “I met a guy.”

“A guy?”

“Yes, he’s nice, he’s handsome, he’s smart, and he has a fucking job.” Kathy was angry.

“He has a fucking job?”

“Yes! He has a fucking job!” Kathy said loudly enough to cause two passersby to turn their heads. “A job, you know, he has a life!”

“I’m working now,” I protested.

“Yes, for the next week, if you’re lucky. Then it’s back to the Dung Hill Arms, drinking martinis, and watching the rail yards decay.” She turned and walked away. I thought I saw her wipe a tear from her eye, but that wouldn’t be the Kathy I knew.

“Bye.” I said quietly. “See you soon.” The Police Department was a nondescript building a half block away, next to the grand columned Courthouse. I watched Kathy walk by the two squad cars parked in front and disappear through the revolving door.