Harvey Porter Does Dallas

by James Bennett

  “Are you okay, Harvey?” Carmelita hollered down.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. There’s about 6 heavy boxes down here.” As his eyes continued to adjust to the light, he could make out the room, which had a wooden floor. It was a small room, about the size of BoBo’s walk-in closet. He stepped on the floor; it felt solid. Old neglected wood floorboards, but solid.

  “Hey Carmelita,” he called up. “We’re good to go here. I’ll help you down.”

  “You expect me to come down too?”

  “Yeah, sure. This could be the best part of the adventure; I wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

  “But Harvey, I’m wearing a dress!”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “You’ll be able to look up my skirt when you’re helping me down.”

  “Are you wearing underpants?”

  “Of course I’m wearing underpants, what kind of a question is that?”

  “Well then you’re okay. Besides, my eyes aren’t completely adjusted yet.”

  “Do you promise not to look up, Harvey?”

  “No.”

  “Oh what’s the difference? Here I come.”

  Harvey helped her down, getting her under the armpits, and then was able to lower her to the floor. “God it stinks down here,” she said. “It’s stale and super rank.”

  “Yeah, but what can we expect? How many years has this place been shut up?”

  “That’s another thing. It’s really hot and stuffy down here.”

  “Stale, stinks, hot and stuffy. But don’t worry, we won’t be in here for very long.”

  “What is this place?” Carmelita asked. “Why is it even here at all?”

  “You tell me.” He was opening some of the boxes, which smelled rank and moldy, were very stale indeed. Most of them had books inside. Textbooks. “Somebody had to put these down here. Who?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Harvey snapped his fingers and smiled. “I bet it was Oswald. He wanted a secret hideout. He was probably hidin’ out in here when he was supposed to be workin’.”

  Carmelita had no response.

  “Or—or,” said Harvey. He felt the light bulb go on in his head. “What if this is the place where he hid out after he wasted the president?”

  “Afraid not, Harvey.”

  “What’re you sayin’?”

  “Oswald got rid of his rifle, then just walked down all the stairs to the first floor lobby. There were a few cops down there already, but Oswald’s co-workers vouched for him, so he just went straight out the front door, slick and clean.”

  “How do you know so much?” Sometimes her brains intimidated Harvey.

  “Because I live in Dallas, I went three years to regular high school, I read my textbooks and,” she said while putting her face up close to Harvey’s, “I went to class.”

  Harvey might have been annoyed by how smart she was. On the other hand, smart women are better than dumb women.

  “I still think he had a lot to do with this place. Hidin’ out, loafin’ from work, shit like that. Who else would be weird enough?”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Carmelita admitted.

  Little by little when their eyes were adjusted to the available light, they began to see the size of the room and the junk that was down there. Harvey felt his way around the walls and said, “Just like I thought. No bigger’n Bobo’s closet.”

  “Who’s BoBo?”

  “It’s from a different life. Not interesting.”

  There wasn’t much to see in the “hidden chamber.” Some paper clips, a small plastic squirt gun, an old pair of dirty white socks, and in the corner some old, yellowed newspapers. Some of the pages had tight little wrinkles in them. Funny looking wrinkles.

  Harvey checked every box, and they were all the same. Full of books—hardbacks—so they were heavy. All the books looked the same too. Harvey took one out and held it to the shaft of light which came from the open trapdoor. They had a dark blue cover and a title which read, A History of Texas Crime and Punishment. “You know what? Mrs. Bert might like a few copies of this.”

  Carmelita had her hands on her hips. “We are not taking any books out of here. If we show them to Mrs. Bert she’ll know we were on sixth floor.”

  She was making sense. “Okay, Harvey said. “At least we know where they are.” He started moving the book boxes until they formed a kind of platform straight down from the center of the trapdoor. “I can just see Oswald hangin’ out down here, shootin’ his squirt gun and floggin his log.”

  “That’s enough; you can stop right there.”

  “I was gonna.” Then Harvey spied it in the far corner. It was where one of the boxes had been. He went and picked it up. It was a can, and when he got it under the better light, he could see it was an empty tennis ball can. It said Wilson on the side. He removed its plastic cap, still tight in its place, and began feeling around inside. There were papers inside. His heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe they had actually found something!

  He put the cap back on, then tossed the can up through the trapdoor. It landed on the floor with a dull thud.

  “What’d you do that for?” Carmelita demanded.

  “There’s papers inside. I want to see what they are. Can’t do it down here, can I?”

  “I think we should get back out of here.”

  “Okay by me,” said Harvey. “Now it’s easier, because we’ve got a good platform. Go ahead, I’ll push you up by your feet when you get your head and arms out.”

  “Do you promise not to look up?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then,” said Carmelita in a stern tone of voice. “You go first. You can pull me out by my arms.”

  “Okay, whatever.” Harvey stood on the platform, gave a big jump, and landed with his head and arms outside. From then on, it only took a little wriggling, and he was out.

  Carmelita’s arms reached high enough that her hands and elbows were higher than trapdoor level. She didn’t weigh much—it was easy to pull her up and out. “God, I can’t believe how much better this feels. It was so gross down there!”

  “I think we covered that before,” said Harvey. He was sitting on the floor and opening the tennis ball can. It turned out there was only one sheet of paper inside, legal pad paper, with writing on the front and back. It was like a list. Carmelita read it at the same time he did.

  The list, written in sloppy cursive, went like this:

  Willing Street

  San Saba Street

  Benbrook

  East 179th Street

  French Street

  Exchange Place

  Collinswood Street

  Yokosuka

  Klaus Kirki

  Minsk

  1501 W. 7th Street

  2703 Mercedes Street

  214 W. Neely Street

  4905 Magazine Street-

  “What’s this mean?” asked Carmelita.

  “Don’t ask me, I’m clueless. Unless it’s some kind of a hit list.”

  “A hit list?”

  “Yeah. Maybe some guy who was deep into armed robbery was writing places he wanted to hit. Like banks, liquor stores, those kind of places.”

  “Or,” suggested Carmelita, “places he’d already hit.”

  “That’s a good thought too,” agreed Harvey.

  “What’s it say on the back?” she asked.

  Harvey turned it over. The paper was in good condition considering how many years it might have been down there. That’s because it was kept sealed in the can, he thought.

  On the back were two brief sentences, printed, and side by side.

  It’s safe. It’s in the bank.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “What am I, a psychic? How am I s’posed to know?”

  “Well, let’s say we’re right, the list on the front is businesses and banks and liquor stores he was going to rob. Maybe he meant to leave a message to some compadre about a bank account.”

&
nbsp; Harvey sighed and put his head on his knees. “Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. We aren’t gonna figure it out today, that’s for sure. I say we go back downstairs.”

  “Shouldn’t we close the trapdoor?”

  “Nah. When workers come up here to get this place ready for the public, they can take out the books if they want. They can nail it down permanent if they want.”

  He started down the stairs, carrying his tennis ball can, with Carmelita close behind. He cracked the door just a little to see if the coast was clear. It was. “We’re good to go,” he whispered. “Hurry on out.”

  She stepped down to join him in the hallway. She took about three quick breaths. Harvey closed the door quietly.

  “Shouldn’t we lock it?” she asked.

  “I can’t lock it, I’ve only got a paper clip. All I can do is unlock it.

  They walked quietly but swiftly down the hall. Carmelita took three deep breaths. She began to feel the relaxation creep into her bones. She pointed to the tennis ball can. “Are you going to take that down to your hutch?”

  “Sure. What else?”

  “You better have a good lock.”

  “I’ve got a stone-ground lock,” Harvey replied. “You couldn’t bust it open with a deer rifle. And I’ve got the only key.”

  When they reached third floor, Carmelita said, “This is where we part. I’m heading straight for the shower.”

  “I might do the same myself.” Harvey answered. He went into 3B and opened his hutch. The pug-ugly, blocky white bread was in his bed, as usual. When he wasn’t reading comic books he was sleeping.

  “Whatcha got there?” he asked.

  “Let’s pretend it’s any of your business.” Harvey put it in the lowest corner of his hutch, next to his nine millimeter. He quickly covered them up with his chamois.

  He locked his lock, then went to stand at the end of Pug-ugly’s bed. He was reading a Green Lantern comic. Harvey kicked his bed. Hard. The boy dropped his comic and said to Harvey, “What the hell.…”

  “What’s your name, white bread?”

  “Jesse Stonecipher,” came the answer.

  “Sit up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you to. Now just sit up.” Stonecipher did as he was told. “Now what?”

  “Now I want you to listen to me real careful, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once. I don’t think I like you. You’re lazy and boring. And I know I don’t like it when people ask me personal questions.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Are we clear?”

  Harvey watched Jesse’s Adam’s apple bounce. “We’re clear,” he said.

  11. CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS

  Harvey actually liked Mrs. Bert’s sociology class. It was the first time he could ever remember liking a class in a school. You could chew all the gum you wanted, and even a few mild swear words were allowed in class discussion. You couldn’t use the really heavyweight obscene words, though.

  Harvey had developed a friendship with Victor Vice, the kid who sat beside him in the next row. He was real easygoing and real smart. Harvey couldn’t help wondering what happened to put him in the SAS.

  Mrs. Bert called the class to order. “How’s the Liddy book coming?” she asked. Most of the class mumbled something like “okay,” or “it’s all right.” Harvey resisted the urge to tell her he knew almost all the techniques Liddy described, but he loved the stories in the book.

  “What I’m going to do today,” said Mrs. Bert, “is ask you a little bit about your criminal background. I know it seems personal, but I need to know about any criminal activity in your past so we have a better view of where we stand and where we should head. Okay?”

  “Sure,” most of the kids said, because they knew it could be a chance to brag about their past. Harvey just said, “Yeah, that’s cool.”

  Carmelita had her hand in the air. She went first. “I never had any criminal background. The cops always thought I had information, because my older brother is the leader of a brown bread street gang. But he never told me anything and I never asked. I didn’t want to know anything about it.”

  “Then why did you end up in this new school?” Mrs. Bert asked.

  “The cops would come to my high school and take me into one of the counselor’s offices. I got the third degree. They never believed me when I told them I didn’t know anything.”

  “And then what?”

  “My counselor told me if I came to SAS, all of that would stop because there were cops as teachers and even the principal was an ex-cop.”

  “Mr. D’artagnan prefers to be called headmaster.”

  “Whatever.”

  Mrs. Bert told the class, “You see? It’s all part of the fabric of the criminal element. The profile you might say. Innocent people get dragged wrongly into the mix. Carmelita is living proof.”

  The class clapped for Carmelita; she blushed.

  Then it was Lichtenstein’s turn. He was very irritating, but Harvey vowed to stick to the promise he’d made.

  Mrs. Bert asked him, “Mr. Lichtenstein, do you have a criminal past?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He bounced his Adam’s apple. “I used to steal peoples’ garbage cans.”

  “Their garbage cans?”

  “Yeah, that and pink flamingoes out of peoples’ gardens.”

  Oh God, thought Harvey. He slumped in his chair. Lichtenstein went on, “I only stole a certain kind of garbage can.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “It had to be those blue rubbermaid ones with the dark blue lids. That’s the only kind I ever stole.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I just liked ’em. I liked the colors and the way they felt. They weren’t heavy.”

  “What did you do with these garbage cans once you’d stolen them?”

  “Not really much of anything. I just lined them up in the back yard and kept them clean. I hosed them off after it rained. Sometimes I even washed the insides out. I told my mother I got them at yard sales, and she was good with that, because she’s a yard sale freak. Sometimes when my line got too long, I cleaned up one or two and took them back to their owners.”

  Harvey yawned and stretched, then raised his hand. “Mr. Porter?”

  “Yeah, you think we could move on? Lichtenstein is gonna put us all to sleep.”

  “Let him have his chance to finish, I’m calling on you next.” She turned back to Lichtenstein. “What about those pink flamingoes?”

  “I don’t know what it was. I just liked ’em, the same way I liked the garbage cans.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “Not much. I just took ’em home and stuck ’em into the back yard, in front of the garbage cans. Eventually, I had eleven, all lined up in formation like a football team. I made sure I stuck ’em all into the ground the same so they were all the same height.”

  “Did you ever take them back to their owners’ gardens?”

  “Yeah, I did that a lot too.”

  Harvey couldn’t stand another minute of this. He raised his hand aggressively. When he was called on, he said, “Can’t you see how bogus this is, man? Pretty soon he’s gonna tell us about jaywalkin’ or spittin’ on the sidewalk.”

  “Are you calling me Man?” demanded Mrs. Bert immediately. She had her hands on her hips, which were cocked to one side.

  “No, not you, Mrs. Bert, just, you know, like to everybody in general.”

  “I’ll accept that for now, but if you ever call me man in this classroom, I’ll write you up for a detention so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  Harvey wondered what a detention meant. He’d never heard students talking about them. He looked at Victor, who was smiling. “It’s gonna be okay, Harvey,” he whispered, “just be cool about what you say.”

  Harvey repeated himself. “This is completely bogus, because Lichtenstein took pink flamingoes out of peoples’ gardens, and lots of times he took them back. There’s no crime here.”r />
  “Stealing personal property is still against the law, Harvey, at least the last time I looked.”

  Harvey dismissed her remark. “Strictly nickel and dime stuff. Not worth talkin’ about.”

  “I think you’re missing the main point.” Mrs. Bert turned to speak to the whole class. “If you listened to your friend Mr. Lichtenstein, notice that he didn’t know why he stole the items. He says he just liked their looks and decided he had to have them.”

  “What’s the point?” asked Victor Vice.

  “The point is, it’s a perfect example of obsessive-compulsive criminal behavior.”

  “Obsessive comwhosis?”

  “It’s a mental disorder and it means people do things but they don’t know why. They just get urges which they can’t resist. Sometimes, the urges involve stealing. Do you understand, class? Our job here is to try and understand the whole fabric of criminal behavior, the complete ball of wax.”

  Victor could really relate now.

  Harvey actually thought she had a point. Then she asked, “Okay, Harvey, please tell us some of the details of your criminal past. I’ve read your file, so I don’t think there’s time to talk about all of it.”

  Harvey sighed. “Where you want me to start?”

  “How many times have you been in juvenile prison?”

  “Three.”

  “Did their programs do you any good?”

  “No. It was all lame.”

  “Why don’t you start with these troubles you had in junior high school? You were suspended three times before you got expelled.”

  “Yeah, that was when I was livin’ on the street with my dodger. I never went to much school, just here and there and it usually never lasted.”

  “What did you do in junior high?”

  “I was just beatin’ kids up, takin’ their lunch money, just little stuff like that.”

  “Little stuff? Do you consider beating up your schoolmates little stuff?”

  “Yeah, basically. I only beat up kids who deserved it.”

  “And how did you decide if they deserved it?”

  “They were guys who had loud mouths on them or were real irritating, you know what I mean? I went to this high school where I beat up these two kids pretty bad. They were makin’ fun of my dodger. I couldn’t let it go. I was in criminal court for assault and battery. Those were two of the times I got sent to juvenile lock-up.”