Pepper

by Carol Buhler

  “It’s break-time,” Bon said. “We’re not here to meet people or I’d introduce you to some. You’ll learn who’s who when you set up shop here.”

  “Set up shop?” Laird glanced at Byron. “What sort of shop? And what about Simone?”

  “She and I discussed setting you up in your own business. You don’t want to work in laundry forever, do you?” He grinned at the looks on their faces. “I didn’t think so.” The bus had stopped and Bon led them down to street level, then off to the left a half block. He stopped in front of a narrow, run-down building sandwiched between two large, windowless warehouses with only one door apiece.

  The narrow building had one big glass window looking toward the street next to a plain steel door. The window bore a long crack running from one upper corner down to near the bottom frame on the opposite side but held onto its position. The wood around the window and door had once been painted; Laird couldn’t determine what color from the dirty strips dangling precariously from the outside walls.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Bon exclaimed throwing his arms out wide as if to embrace the building.

  “What?” Laird said in disgust. “That old building? Nothing beautiful about it!”

  “Yes, it is. Use your imagination.” Bon placed his hand on Byron’s shoulder. “What do you see, Byron? You’re the more imaginative of you two.”

  The boy strode forward and peered in the dusty window. “I see an office. New window, bright, spiffy paint. Desks and chairs. Filing cabinet. Maybe a rug.”

  “Good boy. This is your new business. Simone bought the building and I’m going to conjure up some furniture. You’re going to clean up the outside and inside, make the necessary repairs, and start gathering information—for a fee.”

  “Gents will pay us for information?”

  “Exactly. I’ll help you get started but you won’t be doing much different than what you’ve researched this last year for homework. As you build a reputation, you’ll create a good solid business that’s needed. This is the best location—right where people are who will pay for information and real close to the bus stop.”

  Laird glanced around. Break must be over—all the workers have gone back inside. “Those blokes we saw will pay?”

  “Not them!” Byron smacked him on the back. “Where’s your thinking gone? The owners and managers of these places. They’ll want to know what their competition’s doing.”

  “Among other things,” Bon muttered. He motioned them forward, unlocked the door—which appeared solid enough to stop a bull—and showed them the inside. Laird immediately noticed the front wall was a full two feet thick. Only the outside was covered with wood—the inside of the wall was brick and adobe. Like a fortress. So were the side walls although they’d appeared to share with the warehouses.

  The inlaid wood floor badly needed a polish or varnish. The back wall, the same brick and adobe as the front, stood at least fifty empty feet away. Lots of room.

  “Bon,” Laird broke through the man’s discussion with Byron about what was needed to make the place useable. “What’s with the walls? What aren’t you telling us?”

  Bon huffed and reddened slightly as both sets of eyes focused on him with suspicion. Good. Byron noticed the fort-like walls, too. He’s not so hero blind to believe everything Bon’s saying.

  “This information business is not without its hazards,” Bon said quietly, with a tone of iron backing the words. “Men who buy information often want to stop said information from being obtained. We wanted a good, safe place for you to hole up if you needed to.”

  Laird waved an arm around. “Get trapped in, more like.”

  Bon grinned. “You haven’t seen the best part, yet. Follow me.”

  At the back of the empty space—cool, Laird noticed, like an underground storage room—Bon stopped in front of a blank-looking adobe wall to the right of another heavy steel door and smirked like he was pulling the wool over their eyes. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” Byron said with sarcasm. “What did you expect?”

  “I expected you to see nothing. But, when you feel right here...” He ran his hand slowly and lightly up what looked like a slim crack in the adobe. A whole section slid in and back, revealing a passageway in the thick wall. “Not for the faint of heart—or over-eaters,” Bon continued. “This leads to the corner and then down into a tunnel that runs under the entire warehouse to the north.”

  Laird and Byron looked at each other in surprise, then Laird stepped forward and peered into the darkness. It was very narrow, but he could slide along it without much trouble. Byron might have some difficulties; he’s huskier than me.

  “So, this could get us out of a trap.” He swung around and glared at Bon. “Who all knows about this? Won’t do us no good if everyone knows.”

  Bon’s face no longer shone with a grin. His absolute soberness sent shivers up Laird’s back.

  “I told you about my mom and I said my dad left us,” Bon started softly. “Well, he didn’t leave because he wanted to, and he wasn’t a drunk.” The man turned and headed slowly back to the front of the building, looking around as if he saw things they couldn’t see. As Laird stepped out of the crevice, the wall shifted back into place and he wondered if he’d actually seen the opening. He followed Bon.

  “Pa got himself involved with some really dangerous people who put a price on his head. He had to run or die. Mom and I never learned if he lived or not.” Bon’s eyes swept the wall to his right. “We lived in this place until I was twelve. There never were actual rooms. Mom made dividers out of wood, cardboard, material—whatever she could devise. My room, so to speak, was right here.” He glanced toward the back. “All Mom had to cook with was a portable hot plate. It sat against that wall, over the opening to the passageway.”

  He paused and his voice dropped even lower. “Dad and I carved out that passageway, and discovered the tunnel under the warehouse...” His eyes clouded and Laird glanced away, not comfortable seeing tears gathering. Bon had never before let on how he felt about his father. “...I say discovered. Ha! I’m the only one who discovered. I’m sure Dad knew it was there all along. That’s why we made the opening through that particular thick wall. It saved our lives...or at least my mother’s and mine. His enemies never bothered us after he took off. I guess they knew we had no knowledge of his doings, or his whereabouts after he got away that night.”

  Bon shook his head and headed briskly toward the front. “Enough history. Believe me, no one knows about that passage—even Simone. I talked her into buying this building because of the apparently impenetrable walls. I knew you couldn’t withstand a siege—you won’t have to. Although no one could set fire to you, either.”

  Chapter 5

  The boys found themselves overly busy in no time. At first, the warehouse and factory owners scoffed at the idea that two young lads would be able to efficiently gather information their own adult spies couldn’t get. But they had no problems with paying the meager amounts asked by the boys to run errands and carry messages all over the city. Even the first month, Laird proudly delivered Simone’s share in person.

  She hadn’t told the rest of her family about her investment and warned Laird and his brother to not let on what they were doing or how they’d gotten started other than with Bonami Jeffs’ help. She chortled with glee when Laird handed her the percentage they’d agreed upon. “I might be quitting this laundry afore I get too old to work!” she said as she slipped the money into her bra.

  Their first “real” customer, according to Byron, came from middle management in the warehouse to the north. He entered their front door with his hat in his hands, unaccountably nervous in the presence of two so much younger than him. Laird smiled and greeted him, ushering him to a chair facing the battered desk Bon had purchased at a school rummage sale.

  In halting, rough language, the man explained that a rival at work had presented their boss with stories of him leaving the warehouse with things he shou
ldn’t have. He leaned forward, his eyes shining with earnestness. “I swear to you boys, I never took nothing. But them things be missing. I think he took ‘em, but I cain’t prove it.” He sank back onto the uncomfortable chair, a picture of pure misery. “They’re gonna fire me if I can’t prove my innocence. Mr. Bonami Jeffs’—him being a friend of my oldest son—told me to hire you all. That you’ll help me prove I’m innocent. So, here I am.”

  “You swear you haven’t stolen these things?” Byron asked. To Laird’s surprise, the man turned to his younger brother and swore vehemently that he hadn’t.

  “We’ll take your case,” Byron said firmly before they’d even discussed the details. Laird didn’t contradict him although he heartily wanted to. What’ll we do to fix this?

  The man thanked them profusely, then timidly said he had until the end of the next week to show his boss.

  “We’re on it,” Byron said. “Leave it to us. We’ll get with you early in the week with what we find, and then decide if we need to learn more. Can you give us a list of the missing items?”

  “Yeah!” The man dug a rumpled piece of paper from his vest pocket. “Bonami said you’d want this. Had my boy write it out for you.” He handed it to Byron, then gazed hopefully at the pair of them. “Anything else?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weeks. We’ll let you know if we need more.” Laird escorted the man toward the door.

  Halfway there, Weeks stopped. “Here. He said you’d need start-up money.” The man handed Laird twenty dollars.

  “Then you’ll want a receipt. Just a moment and I’ll write one for you.”

  “I cain’t read, but I guess I should get one. Thanks.”

  The second their new client had closed the door behind him, Laird turned on Byron. “What were you thinking? How are we supposed to find evidence if he doesn’t know who’s doing the stealing?”

  “You know he’s from next door. Remember? We have a secret way into that warehouse.”

  “So, we’re going to break in, sneak around, and find missing product? Byron, that stuff’s long gone by now. We won’t find a thing.”

  They spent the afternoon arguing, thankful no other customers seemed to want them that particular day. At five, just as Laird was about to close and lock the front door, leaving them safely inside where they’d built themselves a cozy living area, Bon knocked sharply and pushed in the door.

  “Weeks came, I’m guessing,” he said briskly. He strode toward the desk and placed the box he carried on the middle of the rippled top, brushing aside a stack of papers. “I’ve brought you a camera. Should come in very handy for this case.”

  “We don’t know how to use a camera,” Laird protested. “And what do you think we can do to help Weeks?”

  “You’re going to learn the camera, of course. And you’re going to get pictures of the accuser sneaking out of the building with whatever he’s carrying off.”

  “You know for sure who’s doing it?” Byron reached for the box and began opening it.

  “Careful,” Laird snapped. “That thing’s expensive.”

  “Yes, it is,” Bon agreed, “but not fragile. And yes, I’m pretty sure who’s doing the stealing. He pulled this gig once before and got another man fired for supposedly walking out with the merchandise. It’s the same accuser from a couple of years ago. I heard all about it then. And now it’s happening to Jack’s dad. So, you’re going to stop it and make a solid reputation for yourselves. Steele’s man—Steele’s the boss—claims he can’t find out who’s doing it if not Weeks. You’ll show him up and Steele will use you from now on when he wants information.”

  He took the camera from Byron’s awkward grasp and commenced their first photography lesson.

  **

  It seemed way too easy for them to slide through the wall, into the tunnel, and sneak into the warehouse through a loading door in the back. They were in position at closing time, hidden behind stacks of merchandise that still allowed them sight of the exit door. Workers shuffled out, clicking their timecards in the machines to record their day. Most of them wore the same blue or brown coveralls Laird had seen that first day they’d visited the area. But one man—Laird grinned with delight—wore a heavy overcoat. Well, lookie there. He looks just like our man.

  As the man reached up to punch his card, his coat flared open and Laird spied a box corner sticking out. He made the sound of metal screeching on cement that he’d practiced for hours the day before; it was the signal to Byron that he’d spotted the thief. Then, he slipped along the holding racks and out a loading ramp. Byron was already running silently along the back lot.

  Overcoat Man exited and strode toward the corner where a bus waited to transport many of the workers into the city. In his disguise of ragged hair, dirty shirt, short pants, and toeless shoes, Laird ran at the man as if pursued. When he bumped into his target, the man spun, the coat flared open again, and a box dropped to the ground. He swore, ducked, and snatched it back while shouting obscenities at the urchin streaking away.

  The boys met back in their office ten minutes later. “Did you get it?” Laird asked anxiously.

  “Yeah! Ain’t this somethin?” He already held the photos in his hand. Laird cringed at Byron’s language but didn’t comment. After all, he stood in all his grubby glory, just as amazed as his brother. Overcoat Man was centered in the first shot with coat opening as he stumbled around. The second shot revealed the box with a clear brand name, and the third caught Overcoat Man’s hands clutching it to his belly. The last showed him buttoning his coat closed, hiding the box.

  The most marvelous thing of all, the boys agreed, was the date and time stamped onto each photo.

  “We have to do it again,” Byron said.

  “Something. Not the same thing.”

  Two days later, Byron swung off the waiting bus just as Overcoat Man reached the door. With a knitted cap pulled far down on his forehead, the younger brother was dressed in blue overalls like the other workers. They’d padded his shoulders to make him look bulkier and darkened his face with one of Simone’s dyes. His hands sported a pair of yellow leather gloves. As Overcoat Man reached up to grasp the railing alongside the bus door, Byron punched him square in the jaw. The man went down, the coat burst open, and a box dropped beside him, the cardboard springing apart. Byron faded into the crowd, stuffing his hat and gloves down the front of his overalls. He then looked like any other laborer as he peered anxiously over shoulders at the ruckus at the bus door.

  Inside the bus, Laird, dressed spiffily as any young schoolboy should, snapped pictures with no one noticing. Everyone was too busy fussing about Overcoat Man. The workers finally got the groggy victim on his feet, then boarded the bus, muttering about someone having a bad day. The bus continued down the street where Laird stepped off at what might have been his house.

  **

  Weeks happily paid their modest bill and invited them to join his family for dinner. Although cautioned not to talk about how he’d obtained the photos he’d shown to the owner, Steele, he raved at their efficiency over the table. Laird explained that, while he was glad Mr. Weeks was still employed, they had to be careful to avoid Weeks’ co-worker’s revenge since no one knew what had become of the man. The members of the family looked solemnly at each other, then promised to guard the secret.

  Nevertheless, Laird opened the front door a few days later to a well-dressed, heavy-set man with sharp, dark eyes. “Homer Steele,” the man said. “Got a job for you young fellas.” And their career was launched into the Bonn—not black market—but shadowy world of information collection.

  **

  Two years passed swiftly. Laird paid off their obligation to Simone for the purchase of their building; she retired to “Live the sweet life,” she said. Their business, Salt and Pepper Investigations, thrived to the point that they hired part-time University students to comb courthouse records, newspapers, and gossip circles in various parts of Bonn to gather information on prospective clients, government offi
cials, and well-known, and even not-so-well-known, miscreants of their city.

  Both became proficient at entering and manipulating information with the two computers that graced their desks and, more often than not, were able to provide answers to information seekers as soon as they first appeared in the newly re-decorated office. Their rates rose with their fame.

  Bonami graduated from the University; Laird and Byron hosted a celebration party at Salt and Pepper, Investigators. Even Simone attended.

  After all guests had gone, the three young men sat in the comfortable chairs Byron had purchased at an estate auction talking quietly about the future. “I want to put you on retainer as soon as I get my office set up,” Bonami said.

  “Aw, Bon.” Byron slurred his words slightly from the overabundance of wine he’d consumed. “You won’t ever have to pay us. You’re the reason we’re able to live so good!”

  “Byron, don’t be a fool.” Bonami leaned forward and took the young man’s face in one hand, forcing him to meet eye-to-eye. “I intend to make lots of money. And I will pay for your services to me at all times. Besides, I’ll always have a client for passing on your expenses or I won’t ask you to do something.”

  “Oh!” Byron’s eyes grew wide as he absorbed the words. “Guess that’s alright, then.”

  Chapter 6

  Almost a year later, at closing time, Bonami entered the premises of Salt and Pepper, Investigations again. Laird and Byron chided him for not coming to visit sooner now that he was a high falutin’ lawyer.

  “It’s been a rough year, but we’re making ends meet!” he retorted to their teasing. “You haven’t come to see my office in the last year, either.”

  Laird glanced down at his rough pants and dirt-covered boots, waved open his workman’s jacket to reveal the oil-stained plaid shirt beneath, and quipped, “Not our sort of place.”