“Meredith: my friend is willing to see you, but only you. No cops, no companions. If you agree, come alone to meet us at my apartment at 7 p.m. tonight. – Simon”
I called Wynan.
“Not a chance, Red. You don’t go into that neighborhood at night without me, and you don’t go up to anyone’s apartment alone either.”
We argued for a few minutes, and then Wynan finally agreed. “Here’s the deal. I drive you. I wait in the car for twenty minutes. If you don’t come out by then, I go up to Gorshak’s place and break down the door.”
Thoughts of my meeting with Simon’s friend almost made me forget I was scheduled to be the guest teacher in a news reporting class. As I entered the classroom, I noticed every chair was filled. It seemed no one was going to skip class since our topic was how to report on Danica Boerum’s speech without letting your own bias show through the writing.
“I suppose this will be good practice on how to avoid using weighted words in news writing,” said one of the students.
“And how to watch out for pejorative adjectives and nouns,” said another.
“Just use her own words,” I advised. “Enough of her direct quotes ought to give the readers or the listeners an idea of what kind of philosophy she represents.”
“Is bigotry a philosophy?” one student cracked.
“Don’t forget to charge up your cell phones so you can record everything. Don’t rely exclusively on your notes or your memories.” I turned to the wise cracker. “And tell me why you have already decided she’s a bigot.”
“I’ve been doing research on her.”
“Research is good. Do as much as you can. What you’ve done so far should help you with today’s in-class assignment. It’s designed to help prepare you for the actual speech. So please get to your computers.” The class moved over to the side of the room where a line of computers sat blinking. Some had brought laptops so they could stay at the classroom table and still file their stories to the main computer in the front of the room.
I began, “Today’s assignment is to write a story on the impending appearance of Danica Boerum at the Purist parking lot. It’s your job as reporters to provide enough information about her appearance so that your audience can decide for themselves whether or not they want to attend the speech.”
“How do we politely describe her as a visiting racist?” The question came from a dark-haired girl at the end of the room.
“By not using the word racist, for starters.”
The girl protested, “But how do I warn my readers that if they go to her speech, they’re going to get a mega-dose of segregationist crap?”
“She’s not a segregationist,” said a Hispanic boy sitting next to her. “She doesn’t want us be segregated. She wants us to be deported.”
“That’s what I mean about using her words rather than your opinions. This is a straight news story, folks. What you think doesn’t matter. What you know does.”
Several students began talking at once, and I had to call for quiet. “Stop talking and start thinking. Your job is to write an objective story about a woman’s appearance at a student-sponsored event on this campus.”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“I never said it was going to be easy.”
After class I returned to my office, determined to focus on my work instead of obsessing about my meeting with Simon that evening. I was supposed to join the provost at a student leadership gathering. Nell handed me my notes in time to get me out the door to head across campus. The day was chillier than before and the feel of the March wind blowing against my face was almost welcome. Focus, I said to myself as I buttoned my jacket and hurried up the stairs to a large conference room on the top floor of the student union building.
A group much larger than the one that had met in my office was gathered, some sitting in chairs around a large table, some standing against the wall. I recognized the president of the student council, plus several from the student government and a sizeable number of leaders of student groups, fraternities and sororities. This would be a good audience for Manny to address, and their numbers indicated their concern for the problem Boerum’s appearance might pose.
Manny was standing at the head of the table, conferring with the student president and two women I knew led large sororities on campus. He turned from them and called the meeting to order, waving for me to join him at the head of the table.
“Thank you all for coming, and please thank the members of the faculty who excused you from classes. I have already been assured you will all be provided any make-up assignments necessary to cover your absence this afternoon.”
The room grew absolutely quiet.
“As you know, we are all very concerned about the possibility of negative reactions to the appearance of Danica Boerum at the Purist assembly on their parking lot.”
“Not just negative reactions,” came a voice from the other end of the room. “Blood and bullets, more like.”
“And that’s exactly what we want to avoid,” said Manny.
“So why not ban her ass from the campus?” came a female voice.
Manny looked exasperated but kept calm. “Because this is a university, and we don’t ban speech just because we don’t agree with what the speaker might say.”
“Even if it causes violence?”
Several voices started up.
Manny held up his hand. “That’s what we are gathered to discuss this afternoon: how to avoid violence.”
More murmuring.
“Before I hear from you, I would like you to listen to an idea proposed by Meredith Solaris, the Dean of Journalism. She and I have been talking about this for some time, and I think she has a strategy that might be useful.”
My eyes took in the crowded room. Fresh young faces in every color surrounded me. I realized how much I cherished the diversity on our campus. How in God’s name were we supposed to ensure the safety of these beautiful children who had come here to be educated, not injured or insulted? But the decision had been made, and helping them figure their way through a brutal evening was the task at hand.
In my firmest voice, I said, “First of all, let me assure you I have absolutely no sympathy for the philosophy espoused by the American Purists or Danica Boerum. But I have done some research and talked to the Purists, and it’s clear to me that they hope for something very dramatic to take place at their party.”
“That’s for damn sure,” came the male voice again. I identified him as the head of one of the fraternities.
“Yes. But it can’t happen, for damn sure. Because that’s exactly what the Purists want. They want violence. They want bloodshed. That’s what gets them lots of media coverage, and I think they honestly believe it helps them recruit more members to their cause.”
“Jesus. How do we prevent that?”
“Well, here’s my suggestion. If you and your friends decide to go—and I’m not saying not to go—remain polite and silent. If the speech is too much for you, get up and walk out quietly. If the Purists or any of Boerum’s people taunt you, do not respond. Your best weapon against what she says and what she wants you to do in response, is no response at all. Just absolute silence.”
As if to practice my advice, the room became unnaturally quiet. The expressions were cynical but the mouths were shut.
“What do you think?” I said.
Absolute silence.
“Do you like the idea?”
Silence again.
A few smiles around the table.
“Think this might work?”
A tentative nodding of a few heads.
“I can tell you for sure, your silence is getting to me.”
Laughter and then a few comments to each other, none directed to me.
“Just for reassurance,” Manny said, “there will be extra se
curity guards inside and outside the tent. And I’ll be there in front, although I may move toward the back if that’s where anything starts up. So tell your friends and constituents if anyone tries to provoke you physically, any pushing and shoving or any attempt to prevent you from leaving, just signal a guard or me and we’ll take care of it.”
Finally, the fraternity president could remain quiet no longer. “Should we wear tape over our mouths?”
“No!” came in a chorus. “Let silence be a surprise.”
“If you counsel enough of your friends, the Purists will probably hear about it ahead of time. And the speaker may try to goad you into making noise. But your silence may still have the desired effect. Without uttering fighting words, you may avoid a fight.”
Manny walked me out to the campus path. “Good idea, Red. I have no idea if it will work, but I’m optimistic. You gave them a game to play, a contest to win, and we both know how much students love that. I hope Joe’s making you a good dinner to reward you when you get home.”
“Joe’s gone on assignment. He hasn’t been home for days.”
Manny put his large arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, friend. That’s lonely for you. Want to come to our house? Marguerite is making enchiladas.”
“Oh, I wish I could. I love your wife’s cooking. But I have an errand to run this evening that will probably keep me out late.”
An errand, indeed. Wynan arrived ten minutes ahead of our agreed-upon time. It was clear his intention was to try to talk me out of seeing Simon and his lady friend alone.
“All I’m going to do is talk to her.”
Wynan grunted as he opened the car door for me. He slammed the door on his side for emphasis. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to Joe when he gets back,” he muttered.
“You probably won’t have to explain it,” I said as firmly as I could manage given my own discomfort. “C’mon, Wynan. The woman is a former prostitute, not an ax murderer. If she can help us get to Joe, it’s worth whatever we have to do. The idea of Joe out there with no one to contact if he needs help makes my stomach hurt.”
More grunting as we turned out of my driveway and headed into the dark. I knew Wynan was as worried as I was, and that was why he agreed to go along with my plan, disapproving grunts notwithstanding.
My thoughts shifted from Danica Boerum to Joe Morgan. Maybe I was being an idiot trying to find him myself. But I remembered the times Joe had found me just in time to prevent my getting killed or seriously injured. I never doubted it was my turn to help him. I just wasn’t sure if I could. Joe had always followed his rescues of me with lectures about my taking stupid risks. It made him angry. And chances were he wasn’t going to like the idea of my engaging the assistance of a former enemy.
I could almost see his eyes flash and imagine what he would have to say about this mission I had dragged Wynan into. But I was determined. After Joe’s last time rescuing me, he had been furious, then forgiven me and announced the purchase of six weeks of self-defense training for me.
I obeyed reluctantly. I despise exercise and the self-defense classes were rigorous. The class was taught in a vacant storefront building in downtown Landry and it was always cold—even in summer, the old walls seems to hold onto the winter’s chill. The instructor, a fifty-year-old ex-Marine whose body was made entirely of muscle and sinew as far as I could tell, put us through unrelenting combat exercises. I became acutely conscious that I was at least ten years older than any of the other women in the class. It took me forever to learn to kick hard upwards while lying down and then get up off the floor fast. Learning how to break a man’s nose with my elbow took me an entire class, while everyone else moved on to even more vicious tactics. The instructor brought in football players dressed in puffy protective gear to teach us techniques to defend ourselves against enemies larger and stronger than ourselves. It took me all of those weeks to master the moves I needed to bring one of those guys to the ground, but I stuck with it.
As the lights of Reno loomed ahead, I decided I was grateful I had taken the course. After the lessons were over, Sadie asked me what I had learned. I thought for a minute and then said, “I think I have learned how to kill a man with my bare hands.”
Chapter 16
“We’re here,” said Wynan, bringing me out of my reverie. The traffic to Reno had been light, so we found ourselves parked in front of Simon’s apartment house at five minutes to seven. The street was deserted, the one streetlight near the corner the only illumination other than a few lit windows upstairs in the building. The entire first floor was occupied by a state welfare and social services office, closed and barred. No trees interrupted the sidewalk concrete. The beat of Latin music coming from one of the apartments was the only sound.
Wynan’s face was grim in the dim light of the car. “Twenty minutes, Red. That’s it. After that you’ll hear me pounding at his door.”
“I promise not to dawdle. Believe me, the prospective company is not that attractive.”
“And remember, this woman may still be connected to the sex trade even if she’s not working anymore. So be very cautious about how much you tell her about what you’re looking for and why.”
I took a deep breath. All this stress could not be good for the baby. “I promise. I’ll be quick, careful and discreet.”
The street was still dark and empty when I exited from Wynan’s car. I opened an outer door and pushed a bell marked “Gorshak.” A buzz came almost immediately. The stairs were lit with a harsh fluorescent light and covered with faded carpet that was ragged on the sides of the steps. Simon opened his door before I came to it and stood out in the hallway. He looked less dreary in a plaid shirt and slacks instead of his overcoat.
“Good evening, Meredith.”
“Good evening,” I whispered as he motioned me through the door.
The apartment was small and, except for a bright lamp on the desk, mostly in shadow. The windows were covered with shades and heavy curtains and the walls lined with bookshelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. A desk confronted me as I made my way into the room. Piles of papers surrounded an ancient Mac computer that sat blinking at me. Beyond the desk, I could make out a heavy leather couch and two upholstered chairs.
A light switched on by one of the chairs. Curled up against the faded upholstery was a thin woman with gray blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her long red-nailed fingers held a lit cigarette and she brushed ashes from the front of a black sweater.
“Veronica, this is Meredith. Meredith, Veronica.”
The woman did not get up or hold out her hand, just nodded and gave me a steady stare as I sat in the chair opposite her.
“Thank you for seeing me, Veronica.”
Veronica drew deeply on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke toward Simon, now seated on the couch. “You sure she’s not a cop?” Her tone was gravelly, betraying years of tobacco.
“I’m sure, Veronica,” he said, with more patience than I had ever heard from him before. “As I told you, Meredith is a professor. She and I taught together a while ago at the university.”
Her eyes fastened on me. “How come you’re interested in what I have to say? I don’t know nothing about much anymore. Not enough to interest a fancy lady college professor.”
“I need help finding someone important to me, and my hope is you may be able to tell me where to look.”
Long draw on the cigarette, balancing an extended ash until, at the last minute, she flicked it into a tiny metal ashtray teetering on the arm of the chair. I noticed burn holes on the fabric of the arm. I suspected this was not Veronica’s first time in Simon’s apartment.
“A man or a kid?” Her eyes were steady and humorless.
Good. Simon had not told her anything about my mission.
“Both actually, but first, the man.”
She tossed her head ba
ck and gave a snort. “A man. Of course. No woman who looks like you should have to go chasing after some bozo. What’d he do? Dump you? Or steal from you?”
In spite of Wynan’s cautions, I took a chance. “He got me pregnant.”
Both of them gasped. She jutted out her chin. “Shit. And you want to find him? Why? To get him back or to make him pay?”
“I’m not sure yet. First I have to find him and tell him.”
Veronica drew another long pull on her cigarette, never taking her eyes off me. She did not look friendly or sympathetic, but something in her gaze told me she was, at the very least, interested. After a long pause, she exhaled, the smoke plume rising toward the dim ceiling. “And what makes you think I can help you?”
“He’s a pimp.”
That brought an ironic smile. “You’ve got to be shitting me. A woman like you has unprotected sex with a pimp and gets knocked up?”
I pretended to look ashamed, even tried to blush. “He’s a really attractive man, and I didn’t know he was a pimp when I dated him.”
She put her head back and gave another snort that sounded like a rooting pig.
“Black, brown or white?”
“White.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Tall, well-built, dark hair. Green eyes.”
Veronica stubbed out her cigarette and sat forward, elbows on her knees, scrutinizing me. Her eyes were beady, but not unkind, and I could see deep wrinkles in her cheeks. Smoker’s face.
“I don’t suppose you know his real name.”
“He gave me a name, but now I doubt it was real.”
“That’s okay. Green eyes and tall will have to do.”
“Can you help me?”
She tossed her head in the direction of Simon, who had risen from the couch and was standing by the window. “This man Gorshak here has been good to me, helped me out any number of times and never asked for a favor until now. I’ll see what I can find out, but if it’s tricky you may have to cough up some money.”
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 58
