Book Case

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “I saw him this morning. He’s six or seven now. He turned into a nice young man.”

  My reference to young Al had apparently been the legitimizing sign that Tiny needed. He motioned for me to join him inside the apartment, then turned and preceded me toward the rear.

  I hurried to keep up as he continued his patter. “You got any more questions you better come on back; I’m in the middle of my business and it won’t get done with me out here jawing in my jammies.”

  “I can come back later if that would be better,” I offered as I tagged along.

  “No need—I can work and talk at the same time. Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “Good. I got a new machine I’m itching to try. Come sit in the kitchen. Don’t mind the mess, but don’t do anything about it. I got a method to my madness.”

  He led me through a living room so dark I could barely find my way, to the small, bright kitchen in the rear of the apartment. It was cramped but cozy, featuring a stainless steel refrigerator the size of a boxcar and an array of culinary devices that made the countertop look like the appliance aisle at K mart.

  Tiny gestured toward the table in the corner. It was round, covered with yellow oilcloth, then covered again with hundreds of squares of paper, some dull as newsprint, others brightly coated stock, all of them promoting something or other.

  I gestured at the piles. “What are they?”

  “It’s how I make my living since Trudy died.”

  “But what are they?”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Are you rich?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not married.”

  “Right.”

  “And never have been.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if you had ever had a wife, you’d know those were coupons. Discounts and entry blanks and rebates. I got them laid out by dates and deadlines.”

  Tiny turned his back and poured me some coffee from a Krups machine that was issuing a steady gush of it. When he turned to present me with the cup, the look on my face provoked him.

  “I feed me and Bill”—he gestured toward the cat in the corner by the stove—“on fifteen dollars a month over and above the coupons and that includes a meat dish three nights a week, plus I make two hundred extra from the rebates. So don’t be looking like I’m some kind of nut.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “And I got all these”—his arm swept toward the appliances that filed across the counter like a parade of miniature war machines—“for free. Plus”—he looked to make sure I was paying attention—“I been to Hawaii sixteen times. All expenses paid.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Well, it ain’t easy, let me tell you. Got to spend a lot of time in garbage cans, digging out proofs of purchase, plus you go blind trying to read the fine print they put on there to trick you into buying the product but fouling up the entry rules. But I got me a magnifying glass, so they don’t get anything by me anymore. The biggest problem I got is the local librarian.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “She’s trying to bar me from the periodicals room—doesn’t like me cutting up the magazines. I promised her there’d be nothing that amounted to anything on the other side of any of my clippings, but she won’t listen to reason. She’s hauling me in front of the board next week.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  He shrugged. “If they kick me out of the local branch, I’ll just go back downtown. Got to be tricky to get by these days. Tricky or rich, and I’m not rich.” He pulled out two chairs and we sat and sipped our coffees. “So what do you want to know about the Lintons?” he asked when he was ready.

  “It’s Mr. Linton I’m mostly interested in.”

  “What about him?”

  That stumped me. “Well, what did you think of him?”

  He shrugged. “Nice enough, I guess. To me.”

  “But not to his wife?”

  “I heard a few strong words. No subflooring up there, so there’s little way not to. But any marriage has strong words—I thought Trudy was going into conniptions when I started with the giveaways.” He sipped more coffee, frowned, and looked back at the machine that was still evacuating a jet-black stream. “Tastes a little funny, guess I’ll give that one to the Seniors Center. I got four more in the closet. He was a weak man,” he added in a quick switch.

  “Wade Linton?”

  He nodded.

  “Weak how?”

  “Made that wife of his do too many things for him—come down with the rent, paint the bedroom, fix the faucet, take care of the packing and moving after he went off to his new job. Maybe not weak, maybe just different. Maybe just spoiled.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t think why they chased him for a government job. ’Course the government’s full of weak men, now that I think of it. Sort of a convention of ’em, is what it amounts to. In this city, at any rate.”

  “What government job?” I asked, more than a little confused.

  “The one that other guy was asking about. The one back East that Linton left here for.”

  “When did this other guy come around?”

  “Way back. Just before they got the baby, as I remember it.”

  “You mean a man came by here asking questions about Mr. Linton?”

  He nodded. “Just like you.”

  “And he said it was because Linton was being considered for a government job?”

  “That’s it exactly. Very mysterious, he was. I told him I was sure Wade’d be good at whatever it was they wanted him for, but I sort of hoped it wasn’t as head of the FBI, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did this man give you a name?”

  “If he did, I forget it.”

  “What kind of information was he looking for?”

  “Everything I had to say about them.”

  “Was the man with the questions asking about anything specific?”

  “Moral stuff mostly, if you know what I mean. Did they drink, did they use drugs, did they get behind on the rent. I told him no to all of it.” Tiny drained his cup. “Funny how they check so hard on their morals before they get them jobs, then let ’em run hog wild once they’re where we can’t get hold of ’em.”

  When I tried to find a meaning in what Tiny Gunderson had told me, I couldn’t do it. “So you think Wade Linton left here to take a government job back East. Did someone tell you that?”

  “I don’t remember, but someone must have. Or maybe I just put two and two together.”

  It was time to zero in. “Have you seen Wade Linton around lately?”

  His response was firm and prompt. “Nope. I suppose he’s still back East. One of them bury crats.”

  “Is there anyone else in the neighborhood who knew the Lintons well?”

  He thought about it. “The Devlin woman, two doors down. Bridget and Lily were friendly. Artist types, the both of them. You figure an artist has a use for one of them?” He gestured at a collection of electric spray paint devices stacked in the corner. I told him I didn’t know, it probably depended on the artist.

  I thanked Mr. Gunderson for the information, but when I started to get up he reached out a hand and stopped me. “I’m pretty sure to win another trip to Hawaii this month—I can give you a deal on it.”

  “I’m not sure I can get away. Why don’t I let you know?”

  “How about a bicycle? I got three down in the garage—those knobby-wheeled ones like they use now. I’ll sell you one for twenty bucks. Take your pick.”

  I shook my head. “But if I see the Linton boy again, maybe I’ll send him by.”

  Tiny brightened. “You do that. My but he was a cute little thing. Me and Trudy said many a time we could have used one of those ourselves.”

  I let myself out the front, but not before Tiny gave me a coupon for a free can of shaving cream and a pack of disposable razors.

  The Devlin place was a triplex not much different from Tiny’
s but for the extra floor. The woman who came to the door was tall and ungainly, with a long, thin face and limp brown hair gathered into a wispy braid which swayed with her lethargic movements. She was dressed in faded Levi’s and a surgeon’s smock, and both the woman and her clothes were streaked with paint, yellow and white mostly, making her look like a walking daisy.

  The apartment was warm and her brow was bright with sweat, but the temperature didn’t extend to my welcome. In contrast to Tiny Gunderson, Mrs. Devlin saw me as an irritant. The ease with which she assumed a hostile attitude indicated that that was the brand she put on most aspects of her life.

  I gave my name and asked if I could talk with her for a moment.

  “Are you selling anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “You’re kidding, I hope.”

  “Nope.”

  Her eyes exploded with concern. “My God. Something happened to Carrie.”

  “I don’t think so. Who’s Carrie?”

  “My daughter.”

  I shook my head. “I’m here about the Lintons. They used to live down—”

  “I know where they used to live.” Anxiety was trumped by enmity. “I suppose this has to do with the letter—I knew she wouldn’t have the nerve to face me herself.” She looked at me closely. “I figured she’d send a lawyer.”

  “What letter are you talking about?”

  “My letter to Lily.”

  Her look was so intense and expectant it made me want more information about her communication with the former Mrs. Linton, but I didn’t want to waste time getting it. “I don’t know anything about a letter,” I confessed. “I’m here about Mr. Linton.”

  The shift deflated her. “He’s in jail,” she said simply.

  “Not anymore.”

  She rebounded. “Really? When did he get out?”

  “Four months ago. Have you seen him?”

  She shook her head. “But I’d like to. I’d like him to know about Carrie,” she added, as though she was afraid I might misunderstand.

  “I take it you liked the Lintons.”

  “At first. Then Lily and I had problems, but Wade was wonderful.” She misinterpreted my look. “To Carrie, I mean.”

  “What exactly did he do for her?”

  Her tone was defensive. “He got her an excellent education, for one thing. Basically, he changed her life.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  She met my skeptic’s eye. “He arranged for her to get a scholarship to Sebastian.”

  “You make it sound like a miracle.”

  “Well, we certainly didn’t have the money for anything like that, so it was a miracle in that sense. And if you knew Carrie in those days, you’d think she was the last person who would succeed in such a school. But Wade saw something in her, and he took a chance and recommended her for the scholarship, and eventually he made it work.”

  “How?”

  “Carrie was never a good student. Actually, she was pretty wild—she cared more about hanging out at Stonestown than she did about her studies. She had a tough time at Sebastian at first, but Wade turned her around. She started doing well in school and was picked as judge of the student court. She even got a boyfriend, a rich one. She graduated with honors and was admitted to Stanford; now she’s in Spain on a fellowship.”

  By the time she finished, the litany had become a hymn. “You must be proud of her,” I said unnecessarily.

  She nodded. “She’ll be everything I’m not.”

  “Which is what?”

  Her lip lifted nastily. “Successful.”

  “What did Carrie think of Mr. Linton?”

  “As a man or a teacher?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “She liked him as a person. And appreciated what he’d done for her. But she thought he was a tyrant as a teacher.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He was too demanding. Too idealistic. Impractical and inflexible in his requirements.”

  “Is that what the administration thought too?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe that’s why they railroaded him.”

  “You have evidence of his innocence?”

  She stiffened. “Just what he did for Carrie. Which was hardly the act of the monster they tried to make him out to be.”

  I’ve been in the business long enough to know that there’s no connection between sex and any other aspect of a person’s life; sex is separate. It may be better or worse than the rest, but it’s separate, which means anyone is capable of anything in that regard. But there was no point in lessening Wade Linton in Mrs. Devlin’s eyes. “When’s Carrie coming back from Spain?” I asked her.

  “Nineteen ninety-two, if she gets her way. She’s fallen in love.” She made the condition sound both rare and terminal.

  “Are any of Carrie’s Sebastian friends still around?”

  “Carrie didn’t have many Sebastian friends. She was on scholarship,” she added, as if that would explain it, and maybe it did.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Linton around the neighborhood lately?”

  She shook her head. “I kind of hoped …” She didn’t complete the sentiment, but I didn’t think all of it had to do with her daughter.

  “Do you know anything about a man who came around several years ago, claiming he was doing a background check on Linton for a job of some sort?”

  She frowned and nodded. “But he didn’t really work for the government. He was a lawyer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw his picture in the paper later on. His name is Messenger. I don’t know what he was up to, but it wasn’t the government job service.”

  “Did you ever see this Messenger again?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a Mr. Devlin?”

  “Danny?” She crossed her arms. “He’s in Stockton.”

  “Temporarily?”

  “Permanently.”

  “Are you divorced?”

  “What does it sound like?” She stepped back and put her hand on the door. “I have more work to do. So do you, since I don’t know anything that would help you.”

  Like a traveling salesman, I put my foot where it would keep her from slamming the door in my face if she had a mind to do it. “Do you know the name of the student Wade Linton was supposed to have abused?”

  She shook her head. “We didn’t travel in those circles, so it wouldn’t have come up.”

  “I thought your daughter might have mentioned it.”

  “Carrie didn’t talk much about what happened to Wade. I think she was ashamed of the school for what it did to him.”

  A thought scratched at me and finally broke through. “Do you happen to have one of Carrie’s old yearbooks around?”

  “From Sebastian?”

  I nodded.

  “Is this important?”

  “Possibly.”

  She thought it over. “Just a minute, I’ll check. I remember Carrie tried to throw them away one time, but I rescued them.”

  Mrs. Devlin left me on the threshold. All I could see inside the house were some imitation Colonial furnishings, a small TV, some art on the walls, and the accumulated clutter of a person living alone. I recognized it because in the realm of clutter, my own apartment was a clone.

  When she returned I was admiring the picture across the room, a colorful rendering of a potted geranium. I gestured at it. “Nice flowers.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you paint it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It reminds me of Mrs. Linton’s work. I guess she’s Lily Lucerne now,” I said by way of explanation.

  Her lips tightened. “It should remind you of her work—she stole the technique from me. And she’s made a mint from it, which is what my letter was all about. Not that it’ll do any good. Here.”

  On a tidal wave of betrayal, Bridget Devlin thrust a heavy book into my hands, one with a padded cover, a glossy
weight to the pages, and a brightly embossed title—The Sebastian Senator. I flipped through it till I got to the faculty section.

  The teachers were grouped by subject—science teachers in the lab, history teachers by the globe, art teachers in a gallery. The English teachers were in the library, posed around a table piled with classics, except that the volume beneath Moby Dick was A Fan’s Notes.

  Only one of the assembled faculty was a candidate for that little bit of rebellion. He was by far the youngest, handsome enough to have fathered the tot Tiny Gunderson remembered so fondly and to have earned a lot of female faith in his rectitude. His tousled hair and mischievous blue eyes gave him the untamed look of a bookish James Dean, which was sure to have been a lure to more than one of his young students, as it had apparently been to every adult woman who had ever crossed his path. I fixed the image in my mind, then blended it with the snapshot his young son had showed me. If I was lucky, Charley Sleet had left the third panel of the triptych at the Central Station, one that would show what half a dozen years in prison had done to the unsuspecting face of one Wade Linton.

  I flipped more pages and stopped at the senior section. The students appeared alphabetically. Beneath their picture, along with their nickname and activities, a slogan thought appropriate. Some of the annotations were endearing and others were alarming—Chamber Group, Future Business Leaders, Mock Stock Exchange, Investment Club; “Judas Priest,” “Road Warrior,” “Mr. Macho,” “Wonder Woman.”

  Carrie Devlin was there, her socioeconomic distance from her peers somehow obvious merely from the cut of her blouse. “Cinderella,” someone had cruelly dubbed her. Her sole activity was the student court. Someone—presumably Carrie herself—had drawn a big, black X through her photo, as though to void her entire high school experience. If her generation was anything like mine, that impulse was close to universal.

  I turned the page. A familiar face looked up at me, a young woman in a sweater with a big white S on her chest, the duplicate of a picture I’d first seen in Bryce Chatterton’s office. Her nickname was Fishy. Her activities were soccer and the drama club and something called the Auxiliary. Her motto was “Just for Kicks.” The entendre, I was sure, was at least double.