by N. C. Lewis
He stepped forward, lowered his voice to a menacing whisper, "Someone has been spreading rumors that I'm about to retire. I'm not!"
"Oh, come now, Andy!" cried Professor Bingham, shifting in his seat and swallowing hard. "Such tittle-tattle washes through the halls and corridors of this institution every day. Why, if I paid attention to every rumor about myself I'd never get any work done."
"Don't give me that crap," spat Professor Arrow. " I know the source of this underhanded attack."
Professor Bingham shrank back in his chair, grasped the glass, and with a trembling hand raised it to his lips. "Now, now, this is a civilized institution; let's not make any unfounded accusations."
"Dan Sweet!" cried Andy raising a finger and jabbing it toward the office door. "Dan Sweet, that's who is behind all of this! That loathsome man has had his eye on my post for years, says I'm too old. I'll teach him a lesson or two—just you wait and see."
Professor Bingham let out a visible breath as a sly smile crept across his face. "Now, now, Andy, you know as well as anyone that Dan has had a distinguished business career."
"Hogwash! This is the final straw. I'm going to fix Dan Sweet once and for all."
Andy turned, and without a further word, stormed out of the office.
For a long moment, Professor Bingham stared somberly into his empty glass.
"Whiskey energizes the mind and calms the nerves. Would you like another, Doctor Stratford?"
I declined.
He went to pour himself another glass, paced for a moment as he sipped, then returned to his desk and sat down.
"Doctor Stratford, we are about done here. Do you have any questions?"
I half wanted to bring up the subject of a pay raise, but now wasn't the right time. I stalled. "Can you tell me what classes I have assigned for next semester?"
"Of course. I have it here."
He shuffled through random piles of paper, muttering incomprehensible words as he did so. He would not find the class schedule easily, so that bought me time to think, which after two tumblers of whiskey is not easy.
A sharp rat-a-tat on the office door interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," boomed the professor without looking up.
"Professor Bingham, I really must protest," cried a short, little guy with big eyes and a small mouth. He half turned toward me. "Oh, you have company? Well, this will only take a moment, and it can't wait."
Professor Bingham looked up. Like a broken record he began, "Ah, Dan Sweet, it's going to be a busy day. Can't think of anything better than starting it with my number one player."
Dan placed his hands on his hips. "You been drinking?"
The professor didn’t answer.
Dan shrugged. "Mind if I join you? It's been a difficult morning."
"Help yourself."
Dan took quick steps to the whiskey-barrel table, poured a full glass with no ice. He glanced at me—a quick questioning look. "Guess it's okay if I mention it in front of Doctor Stratford."
I nodded and flashed my "you can trust me" smile. "Dan, I won't speak a word. What goes on in Professor Bingham's office stays in Professor Bingham's office."
"Okay," he said, taking a gulp from the cup and fetching up a sigh from deep within his stomach. "Guess today's the day. Ground Zero, if you will."
Eh? I thought.
"Eh?" muttered Professor Bingham.
Dan lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, "The announcement, at this afternoon's staff meeting." His voice was like melted chocolate, rich and dark.
I leaned forward. The staff meeting was at one thirty p.m., but if there was an announcement I figured it would be better to hear it now. Not that I would share it with anyone. It's just that in the gossip mill of Medlin Creek Community College, by one thirty it would no longer be news, it would be, well, old, and everybody likes new—even me.
Professor Bingham leaned forward, an eager glint in his eye. "Announcement you say, go on, go on."
Dan took another sip. "Yes, your announcement that Professor Arrow is retiring at the end of this semester…" Again, he paused, his eyes darting around the room. "And that I am his replacement, effective immediately."
Professor Bingham half stood up, then slumped back into his chair. "I see," he grimaced.
Dan arched his right eyebrow. "Today's the day, isn't it?"
Professor Bingham drained his glass. "Going to be a busy day—"
Dan tilted his head back and tumbled the remaining drops of whiskey down his throat. "Let me remind you that I am in possession of certain information. If I pass that information to Chancellor Cannington, it will be curtains for you." Then, replacing the glass, Dan turned to leave. "I'll tell Professor Arrow to clear his office, then?"
Before Professor Bingham answered, Dan Sweet was gone.
Chapter 5
Now I was confused, and not that lightheaded, merry muddle that comes from a glass or two of hard liquor. Whether or not there was a new senior position available, I wanted a pay raise. The professor had hinted at it but hadn’t closed the deal. Now, Andy Arrow and Dan Sweet had muscled in on the act, throwing things off course. It was now or never. I felt my stomach churn as I leaned forward.
"Professor Bingham, there is one other matter we need to discuss."
"Of course. What is on your mind?"
"If a new higher paying position becomes available, I'd be delighted to consider it, but in the meanwhile, a bump or two along the pay scale would do wonders for my morale."
The professor's glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them back up, then took them off and cleaned the lenses. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face radiated with that purplish tinge of the inebriated. "Leave it with me," he said, the voice clear, tone as crisp as a telephone ring. Staring toward the office door he continued, "This time I'll fix everything, good and proper." For a moment, he stared out into space, then glanced down at his wristwatch.
"Must move on to my next appointment. Please close the door on your way out." He slurred each word and belched as I left the room.
The reception area was empty. I glanced up at the clock behind Emma Garcia's desk—eleven thirty-five. Coffee, I needed coffee. Remembering my appointment with Millie I took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. On the first level, I pushed the stairwell door open to the sound of an angry voice.
"That's a stupid thing to do! Listen, you fool, I want my handouts on pink paper not white. Get it done. Now!"
I recognized the voice—Dan Sweet. For a short, little guy with a small mouth, he sure could shout. The man stood with his legs wide apart, hands thrust deep into his pockets, in front of a reception desk scowling at the administrative assistant. She had skin the color of caramel and spoke with a raspy Hispanic lilt.
"But you said white paper, this morning. Look, I have it written down in my notebook."
"Don't you dare argue with me! Pink. I want pink. P-I-N-K. Comprende?"
Wide-eyed, she shook her head hopelessly. "Yes, Professor Sweet. I'll have it ready by two p.m."
"No!" he sneered. " Have it ready by one this afternoon. I want it for the departmental staff meeting. Make sure it is ready—and pink paper!"
Dan thumped his fist on the counter and headed toward the exit.
I followed behind, keeping at a safe distance. I didn't want to get drawn into a conversation but couldn't pass him as he was striding toward the parking lot.
At the glass door by the entrance, he passed an elderly lady. She pushed a walker and leaned into the metal frame concentrating on her next step forward. Her gray hair was swept up into a bun, and she wore a long, black dress like those Mediterranean women in a 1950s black-and-white documentary.
"Professor Sweet?" she whispered in a soft barely audible voice.
Dan Sweet stopped and glared at the woman.
"Yes," he said sharply, "what do you want?"
"Me name's Mrs. Hobs, I'm in your economics class, a student from the Havis County Senior
Citizens Association. I must confess I'm finding it rather a challenge. Your last lecture left me as confused as a goat on AstroTurf. Can I set up some office time with you to go over my last essay?"
He glanced around furtively, then leaned in close. "Don't bother," he snapped. "I'm a brilliant professor, but I'm not a magician you know. Even I can't teach an old hound dog new tricks."
He turned smartly toward the exit and marched outside.
Chapter 6
Gray clouds hung low in the sky as I hurried across the Medlin Creek Community College parking lot to my Tahoe. A heavy sheen of perspiration covered my forehead as I climbed in. I turned the ignition and cranked up the AC.
My mind drifted to Professor Dan Sweet. I'd heard rumors about his unmannered behavior, but to see it firsthand was something different. The man churned my stomach in a frightening way. My jaw clenched.
A boom of thunder shook the vehicle. Raindrops smeared across the windshield. I clicked on the wipers and turned out onto the main road headed for Moozoos Café to meet with Millie.
Moozoos Café, Medlin Creek’s independent coffee shop, is found on Creek Street, a flat stretch of land bordered by the Riverwalk. A sea of little shops sells handcrafted goods and farm-fresh foods. At one end, a scruffy patch of lawn is crammed with food trucks, a popular spot where tourists mingle with locals during the early evening hours. At the other end, on a gentle slope that takes one down to the Medlin Creek River, a flea market with little wooden stalls is filled with knickknacks and curiosities.
The storm had passed by the time I pulled into the parking lot behind Moozoos. Puddles of dirty water littered the lot, and misty clouds of steam vapor drifted upward as the sun broke through. I dashed around the side of the building and onto the sidewalk that snaked along Creek Street to the front of the café.
The sign to Moozoos flashed OPEN in bright electronic letters. I pulled the handle; the doorbell pinged with a gentle note. The narrow entrance led to a little café, not well lit, with huge plate-glass windows that look out onto Creek Street. The air filled with the smell of fresh hot coffee and baked cinnamon rolls.
It was rush hour, although there was only a small line as the rain had kept many of the regular office workers at bay. Martin López, the owner, known to everyone as the "barista," served the drinks, and his assistant worked the cash register.
"Rain's keeping the people away," said the barista glancing toward the door. "Hardly any tourists in today, practically all regulars."
I glanced around the café, it was almost empty. A woman with flawless dark skin, a low forehead, and shoulder-length, curly, black hair sat on her own at one table by the window reading a book. She wore gold hoops in her ears and glanced up quickly every few pages, glancing furtively around checking everything in the café.
"What will be your pleasure today?" asked the barista, following my gaze.
"Medium cappuccino."
"That's Sophia Flores. Don't often see her in the café," he said, nodding toward the woman with the gold hoops. The barista prided himself on being at the center of Medlin Creek gossip. If he couldn’t answer a question on town news, he knew someone who could. "I hear she is on very good terms with one of the professors at the community college."
"Anyone I know?" I asked.
"Don't think so, unless you know of a professor by the name of Andy Arrow?"
I stared back blankly, but the barista must have seen something in my face.
"Oh, I see; you do know him then," the barista said with a sly smile. "They say it's a fiery relationship. Now, tell me what you got on the dude."
"Sorry to disappoint; I don't have anything on him. Professor Arrow is a very private man."
The barista stared hard for a moment. His carrot-shaped chin twitched. Then he grunted, shrugged, and prepared my drink.
I sat down at my favorite table by the window, close to Sophia Flores. She gave a little smile. I smiled back, sipped my drink, and stared out of the window. Cars drove slowly along Creek Street. They splashed through puddles sending water cascading along the empty sidewalk. For a while I thought about Professor Bingham's comments. If he offered a research position, I'd be able to spend more time in the café staring out of the window and thinking. I smiled inwardly at the prospect.
The gentle ping of the doorbell interrupted my daydream. I glanced toward the door thinking it was Millie, but it wasn't. A group of people tumbled into the café. They wore bright colors and flowing robes—Medieval costumes.
"Hey diddle diddle," cried a smiling woman at the head of the group. On her head, she wore a jester's hat—black on one side, red the other. Each side of the hat curved upward like the horns of a ram, but at the tips, rather than sharp-looking points, tiny golden baubles clinked.
"Hey diddle diddle," she cried again, this time doing a little jig and kicking her legs—covered with black-and-white diamond-patterned tights—high in the air. Her clogs thudded against the floor like Buddy Rich beating out a rhythm on a drum.
"Hey diddle diddle," yelled the rest of the group, following suit.
For an instant it was chaos as a band of medieval townsfolk twirled and danced at the front of the café, clacking their clogs against the wooden floor. The barista hurried from the espresso machine to the front of the counter, gave a little bow, and waved a tea towel with a dramatic flourish at the group.
"Welcome, Wimberly Players, you are more than welcome to my humble café." He paused, his lopsided eyes sliding from person to person. "What will be your pleasure, y'all?"
A chorus of voices spoke up, each shouting over the other.
"Small, nonfat latte with caramel drizzle," cried one.
"Large iced, sugar-free, vanilla latte with soy milk," called another.
"Medium, half-caff, soy latte at a hundred and twenty degrees," yet another chimed in.
"Half-caff, twelve-pump, iced, skinny mocha with half heavy cream, half and half, stirred with caramel drizzle and extra whipped cream," shouted the woman at the head of the group.
Everyone cheered at her order.
The barista nodded, his lips tugged into a greedy grin, and he hurried behind the counter to prepare the drinks as his assistant rung up the cash register.
I watched with a curious fascination as the group chatted and laughed among themselves.
"Man, I'm so looking forward to performing at the Lilly Building this Saturday," said a tall man, as thin as an exclamation mark, wearing green tights.
"Gonna be a blast," replied a short, plump woman with a doughnut-shaped face.
The woman at the head of the group was the first to get her order. She glanced around the café, stared for a moment at Sophia Flores, and her face crumpled into a scowl. Her black clogs knocked against the floor as she marched across the café.
Sophia pursed her lips and put her cup down on the table. "Charlotte, baby girl, how are things going?" She had a heavy, raspy Mexican accent.
"I'm not your baby girl, never will be," replied Charlotte placing her hands on her hips. "I spoke with Daddy yesterday. He says you are bleeding him dry."
Sophia had a broad grin on her face, and her dark eyes twinkled as if she was enjoying the attention. She crossed her long legs. "Oh no mi bebé, tu papi loves me. That's why he likes to spend money on me rather than his ex-wife. That is all. From what he tells me, it is his baby girl who is drying the well."
Charlotte's face reddened. She bit her lip as if considering something, then shook her head, and the baubles clinked. "No," she said, at last. " Sophia, you are just an evil, scheming, little gold digger, and when you've sucked Daddy dry and taken everything you'll—"
Sophia raised a hand causing the gold hoops in her ears to tinkle. "Enough, baby girl, enough! Didn’t ya daddy ever tell you not to tangle with a mama wasp?" Her voice filled with malice, and she lapsed into Spanish. "Andy Arrow no es tu padre."
Charlotte's eyes bugged. "No," she cried as if stung by a red paper wasp. Then she fell silent.
Sophi
a tipped her head back, slapped her thighs, and let out a wild cackle. The golden hoops in her ears jingled like sleigh bells at Christmas.
Charlotte twirled around. "Daddy's wonderful. He's paid for everything," she said as she stormed out of the café.
Chapter 7
I couldn’t help but stare as Charlotte slipped through the door of the café, turned left and hurried by the plate-glass window along Creek Street. The mention of Andy Arrow had sparked my interest. His personal life was none of my business, but Medlin Creek is a small town and anyone's business is everyone's business.
I watched Sophia out of the corner of my eye. She put down her book, glanced at her cell phone, stood up and strolled with arms swinging, out of the café. I sat back in my chair, folded my arms and thought. Professor Arrow had to be seventy, at least. Sophia appeared to be in her late fifties, and Charlotte, who I assumed to be Andy's daughter was in her mid-thirties.
As a fresh cloudburst sent rain splattering against the café windows, I placed a hand on my cheek; my mind had figured it all out. Andy Arrow ditched his first wife for a younger and more exotic model by the name of Sophia. This did not go down well with his adult daughter, Charlotte.
"Life isn't anything if it isn't messy," I muttered under my breath.
"Ollie!"
I turned around. It was Millie. She had a cup in her hand and was almost running to where I sat.
"Oh my gosh Ollie! You won't believe this," she said slipping into a chair.
"What's happened?"
Millie's eyes glazed over, but she didn’t say anything.
"What's going on?" I asked, as my heartbeat picked up.
Millie peered down into her cup as if she was reading tea leaves, but still did not speak.
"Did something happen between you and Bob?" Bob was her boyfriend, and I couldn’t think of anything else that would account for her sober face.
