“Actually, I was thinking of doing a piece on the two men who died recently, Manny and Turtle. I was hoping you knew them and could give me some background.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “We’ve got a hundred and fifty beds in this place. I don’t get to know all the men who use them. I don’t even get to know half of ‘em. Here today, gone tomorrow. There’s only a certain amount of time they can stay, you know.”
“What’s the limit?”
“Depends on what the social worker says. If the guy needs psychiatric treatment as an outpatient, the stay is longer. If he’s got a drug problem and he wants rehabilitation, then it depends on how soon he can get into rehab, how long the rehab program is, if he has to be hospitalized, things like that. Then there are programs for guys who want jobs. You see the problem?”
“So, you don’t know or remember if Manny or Turtle ever came to your facility?”
“Nope.”
“What about your records?” Cynthia pointed to the desk. “Looks like you’ve got a heap of paperwork on these people. Can you check your files?”
Jake compressed his lips, making them look as thin as knife blades. “Like I said, I don’t have much time. When you called and said you wanted to come, I thought it was because you wanted to see the facilities, get a few facts, like what they cook in the kitchen, the number of beds. You know—the usual. But if you’re gonna get specific and want a lot of stuff that needs looking up, we’ll have to reschedule.”
Cynthia crossed her legs and settled back in her chair, then pulled her cell phone from her purse. “Excuse me for a second.” She punched in numbers.
“Who you calling?”
“First, Department of Social Services, then HUD, then if I have to, the Oberon police. One of their detectives is a good friend.”
“What for?”
“To find out why I can’t get access to records in a public facility.”
“Just hang up, okay?” Jake’s teeth made grinding sounds. “You don’t need to play hardball. Just because you’re some hotshot reporter doesn’t mean that everyone’s got to bow and scrape when you want something.” He opened one of the file cabinets. “You got a last name?”
Cynthia shook her head. Steve, despite more effort than she cared to give him credit for, had been unable to come up with anything more than first names. “No. No last names.”
Jake banged the drawer shut. “You can go ahead and make that call, now, ‘cause I’m not going through all my files looking for someone’s first name. In case you don’t know it, lady, these records are filed under last names.”
Cynthia slipped her phone back into her purse and rose from her chair. “In that case, I’m sorry I took up your time.” And without waiting for him to escort her out, Cynthia exited the building.
There was only so much you could squeeze from a block of granite.
Jonathan sat clean and crisp in his blue twill suit. It was one of two suits he owned. He picked it rather than his seersucker because he thought it made him look older than his twenty-nine years.
“So, you want to reopen the Beacon Mission?”
Jonathan inclined his head, producing a nod devoid of enthusiasm. He still believed God had made a mistake by calling him to something he was so unsuited for.
If Charles Angus guessed Jonathan’s reluctance, he didn’t show it. Instead, he sat behind his desk, large and imposing in his expensive leather chair, holding a five-inch Ashton between his fingers. He brought it slowly to his lips, took a puff then blew smoke rings into the air. Jonathan was certain Charles Angus never wasted anything, including a cigar. It was obvious that he was treating Jonathan to a bit of theater—featuring Charles Angus as Capitalist Extraordinaire.
“Why do you want to open it?” Angus finally said.
“Because I believe it’s the Lord’s will.”
Angus returned the cigar to his mouth and after making the end glow, removed it. “Did He tell you this Himself? The Lord, I mean?” His polite tone partially cushioned the sneer in his voice.
Again Jonathan nodded.
Angus placed his Ashton in a long marble ashtray, his face a kaleidoscope of humor, peevishness, stoicism and amiability. Jonathan was certain that Charles Angus had taken years to perfect it in order to confuse an opponent. And for Jonathan, it was working.
“What did He say?”
“Don’t eat, wash or change my clothes for three days.” Jonathan thought he heard Angus chuckle. No use. The man wasn’t going to believe a word he said. Why throw pearls before a swine? Still, he’d opt for the truth; do his best for the Lord. Try not to let Him down. “After that, God led me to the men’s shelter, and then to the Beacon Mission. That’s when I knew.”
Charles Angus picked up his cigar and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not going to toy with you, Jonathan.” His eyes never left the cigar. “You don’t mind if I call you Jonathan, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “You seem sincere enough. Though I’m uncomfortable with the thought of God actually speaking to someone, but never mind that. Still, you’ve been honest and direct instead of giving me some pat line about wanting to help the poor. You’ve got guts and I like that. And I guess that God can talk to a preacher if He wants. I mean, after all you’re transacting business for Him. A good Chairman of the Board will communicate with his corporate officers from time to time. See, that’s what I understand, business.”
Jonathan glanced at the small Picasso hanging on the wall behind the mammoth cherry desk. “Everyone knows how astute you are in that arena.”
Charles Angus laughed, but Jonathan could tell the compliment pleased him. “No denying the Angus family has been lucky. That’s what it takes, that and brains and hard work. But you can’t do it without luck—being at the right place at the right time. Timing is everything . . . knowing when to quit something and begin something else. My father saw that it was getting too hard to make money in the manufacturing of clothing, shoes and glassware. U.S. companies that didn’t move their manufacturing to developing nations could no longer compete. But computer software, PCs, e-commerce—that was the wave of the future. And anyone in that line stood to make a bundle.”
Jonathan nodded. The Angus family had exerted their influence in the affairs of Oberon for years. Even now, the Angus Empire, headquartered in North Oberon, took up an entire block to house their new dot com businesses and software companies.
“But we Anguses have always felt strongly about giving back. Even though we got rid of most of our manufacturing plants, we never closed our glass factory or distribution company. We knew there was a need for low-skilled jobs in South Oberon, so we left them. And that’s why when Reverend Gates came to me fifteen years ago and asked me to build him a mission so he and the good Lord could minister to the homeless, I did it.”
Charles Angus took another puff of his cigar, then filled the office with smoke. “And ever since Reverend Gates had that unfortunate accident, I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along so I could reopen it. You have a dollar?”
Jonathan dug into his pocket and pulled out a bill.
Charles Angus reached over and took it. “Okay. The place is yours. You’ve just paid one year’s rent. Any problems, repairs, etcetera you call my assistant, Bill Rivers. But the rest of it, the food, the programs, and the like are all up to you. From time to time, Bill will contact you for updates—just to see how things are going. You’ll find he’s very interested in the mission and will make a good ally. I know Reverend Gates found him so. But don’t worry, he won’t interfere. The running of the place is all yours. You call the shots. So . . . if you don’t mind his phone calls, and if the rent is to your liking, I think we have a deal.”
Jonathan looked at the man, speechless. God had made it easy. Too easy.
“You’ll probably get volunteers to fill most of your positions, but you’ll still need some steady, reliable staff. I know that’s how Reverend Gates worked it. There’s one pers
on I’d call if I were you, because she knows more about the running of the mission and that neighborhood than anyone.” Charles Angus checked his Rolodex and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then handed it to Jonathan. “She can help you get the mission back on its feet. She’ll know the food and clothing stores that made regular contributions in the past, and she has plenty of street contacts.”
Jonathan read the name on the paper: Miss Emily. Underneath, was her phone number. “Does the young lady have a last name?”
Angus laughed. “If she does, I don’t know it. But you could ask Bill. He might. By the way, the young lady is . . . seventy.” Jonathan shrank in his seat and watched Charles Angus blow another smoke ring. “Surely God didn’t tell you it would all be easy.”
When Cynthia walked into the Department of Social Services she felt her head begin to pound. People were everywhere, in lines or walking from one office to another. Others sat waiting in rows of white plastic chairs. She wore her press badge in clear view, hoping it would act as a shield and protect her from being shuffled from person to person like she had been when she tried making an appointment over the phone. That ended by her hanging up in frustration. So instead of making an appointment, she had come cold, ready to seize any opportunity.
She was not, however, without a rudimentary plan, and ducked down a hall that sprouted small, bland cubbyholes like tomatoes along a stem—offices belonging to the caseworkers. She darted into the first open door. A young, pretty woman, not much past college age, sat typing furiously on her computer keyboard.
“Hi there.” Cynthia walked up to the desk and pointed to her badge. “I called to tell everyone I was coming.” She was not above bending the truth. “I’m Cynthia Wells, reporter for the Oberon Tribune.”
The young woman smiled. There was warmth in that smile, and at once Cynthia felt those familiar juices well up, oiling her gears, preparing her for action. She had gotten a live one—an idealistic newcomer who was going to make her mark on the world by righting wrongs and kissing booboos—a perfect source of information.
“I’m working on a piece for the Trib and wanted to interview a few of you here at Social Services.” Cynthia didn’t even stammer over the lie. She had yet to clear this story idea with Bernie. She had decided not to tell him until she was sure there was a story. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”
The pretty woman shook her head. “I liked your Nanny Scam article. It saved my sister a ton of legwork. Your government waste story was good, too.” A look of panic suddenly etched her face. “What kind of piece are you doing now? Nothing about . . . this office?”
“Oh, no. Something on the homeless.”
The woman relaxed. “I’m glad someone’s taking notice. Ever since they began gentrifying the blighted neighborhoods and stripping them of inexpensive housing we’ve had a mass exodus from Skid Row and South Oberon into areas that have never seen the homeless before. Now, they’re everywhere. And that’s got people upset. They don’t like seeing them so . . . up close and personal, you know? I’m surprised there’s been no interest in doing a story before.”
Cynthia scribbled on her pad for the benefit of the social worker. She was deep into her role now—a seasoned actor who knew how to improvise. “What I’m looking for is more of a personal angle. Maybe a case history or two.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can give you access to my case files, not without permission. It’s never come up before, but I’m sure I couldn’t take it upon myself to violate a client’s privacy.”
“The cases I’m interested in involve two men who are dead.”
“Well, that’s different, I guess. But I still can’t help you. When a client dies, that file is market closed and then removed.”
“You mean erased from your computer?”
The young woman laughed. “Maybe other Social Service offices have paperless files, but here we still have a hard copy on every client.” She pointed to the row of metal cabinets behind her. “Those drawers are jammed.”
Cynthia leaned over the desk. “Look, I’m going to level with you. The story I’m working on is more of a human-interest piece than investigative. I want to track a couple of men, find out what went wrong, what caused them both to became homeless and eventually die on Skid Row. I think that way people will understand the devastation of homelessness, what it can do to a life. You see where I’m going?”
“Oh, yes. And it’s a great idea. You can’t imagine how hopeless many of these people are. You have about a third hooked on drugs or alcohol, another third with mental and physical disabilities, and the rest are those who try to work, but either can’t find steady employment or they find jobs that pay too little to keep a roof over their heads. The saddest cases are the women. Most of them are battered and have run away, usually with children they can’t support. A lot of them won’t even come to Social Services for fear their children will be taken away and . . . .”
“My slant’s going to be on two men—homeless men who have died recently.”
The young woman nodded. “Right. That’ll work.”
“The problem is I’m having trouble getting background information. That’s why I’m here. I assume they’ve passed through the paper mill of Social Services at least once, and if so, that you still have a record.”
“Well, it’s possible. What are their names?”
“Manny and Turtle. I don’t have last names.” Cynthia watched the young woman work her face like a corkscrew.
“Yeah, I heard about them being found dead like that—you know, cafeteria talk. A lot of time our work spills over into lunch hour. We discuss our cases or some unusual things we’ve heard or seen. It’s hard to get away from it. Although sometimes I feel it’s a bit much. A person needs a break from a job like ours. But it’s a shame about those two—ending up dead like that. The streets are tough. These people have to take a lot. I don’t know how any of them survive.”
“Were either of them your client?”
“No . . . I’d remember someone called Turtle—though I doubt it was his real name.”
“Maybe you could ask around. See if you can come up with the caseworker who handled one or both of them. Any information would be appreciated.” Cynthia pulled a card from her purse and handed it to the woman. “Here’s the number where you can reach me. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything you may have heard about these two men?”
“No . . . well . . . nothing important.”
“I’d like to hear anything you have. You never know where even a minor detail can lead.”
“Well . . . right after that man, Turtle, died, I was talking to one of my clients and he said what a shame it was and that Turtle was a nice enough guy when he wasn’t so high.”
“You couldn’t tell me this client’s name, could you?” Cynthia smiled sweetly. She was pushing it now, but her audacity had worked before, gotten her important facts on other stories. In her six years as a reporter, Cynthia had discovered that most people loved to tell what they know and could be squeezed with little effort. “Could you let me have this client’s name?” she repeated, slouching over the desk trying to take on the look of a long-time friend. She wasn’t beyond feigning friendship, either. The young woman shook her head, which mildly irritated Cynthia.
“Okay. Maybe you can tell me how your client came to know Turtle?”
“Yes, he said that several months ago they bunked next to each other at the shelter.”
“The shelter?”
“The Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter.”
Jonathan was getting ready to put the final touches on the oversized hamburger he had made when the phone rang. He was exhausted from the long day and considered not answering, until Caller ID revealed it was his aunt. He picked it up more out of habit than anything else.
“Don’t be angry with me, Jonathan, but I’ve started praying that God would send you a wife.”
Jonathan placed an onion on the cutting board and pulled a serrated knife from the
drawer. “Does this have anything to do with Gertie Eldridge telling everyone I smelled like vomit?”
“Well . . . in a way. Gertie did mention that men with wives don’t act so irrationally. She said that’s what straightened out her husband’s Uncle Alistair. I know most of what Gertie says is drivel, but on this point, at least, she makes sense. I never told you, but your Uncle Douglas was a little strange, too, before I married him.”
“You think a wife will keep me from acting crazy?” How could he be angry with his aunt or with Gertie for that matter? From an outsider’s point of view he had been acting crazy. But so had many devout men of God, men like Evan Roberts, the Welsh revivalist, with his fiery sermons, his prayers of healing and deliverance.
But come to think of it, didn’t Evan Roberts have a nervous breakdown?
“So you believe a wife will keep me from acting crazy?” he repeated.
“I didn’t say you were acting crazy. But I think a wife will help you carry the load that God is asking you to carry. God gave Adam a helper, remember? It was God who said ‘it’s not good for man to be alone.’ And that’s what you need, Jonathan. You’re nearly thirty and you need help.”
“Thanks, Aunt Adel.”
“Dearest love, you know I didn’t mean it that way.”
Jonathan chuckled as he sliced the onion and slapped it on his burger. “So maybe that’s why God sent a new woman into my life today, someone who’s going to assist me at the mission.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, who is it?”
“Miss Emily.”
“Rather provincial of you. I’m all for you showing your young lady respect, but I think that’s carrying it a bit too far. I hope you don’t expect me to call her ‘miss’?”
“I haven’t met her yet, but we spoke on the phone and hit it off right away.”
“Oh Dearest, tell me all about it!”
Mercy at Midnight Page 8
