The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  We had seen no point in staying away from the office if the two men were not going to meet again on this day. Tyler’s question about Richard as a friend would be answered, in my opinion, only by compiling relevant facts based on the interaction between the two young men. One encounter lasting less than a minute was not enough, I thought, to consider the question answered.

  Ms. Washburn seemed to disagree.

  “We saw the way Richard joked about Tyler to his buddy behind the counter,” she said now. “We saw how Richard basically dismissed Tyler from the store, and we saw why Richard might want Tyler to think he’s a friend, because Tyler hands out incredible tips that he can’t possibly understand are inappropriate. Richard’s playing Tyler, clear as day.”

  I don’t like to disagree with Ms. Washburn, but when considering a question I am not moved by emotion; my work has to be based strictly on that which I can prove. So I attempted to make that point.

  “The set of circumstances we saw can easily be interpreted in numerous other ways,” I said. “Perhaps Richard was under pressure to keep the line moving. He said something funny which Tyler, because of his neurological difference, either did not understand or simply did not find amusing. He left the oversized tip in the jar because he has a limited grasp of the value of money or because he did not pay attention to the size of the bill he was using. That too is a possible scenario.”

  “There’s nothing in what you said that indicates Richard is Tyler’s friend,” Ms. Washburn said. She was typing away at her keyboard, a little more forcefully than usual, I thought.

  “That is true. It is also true that there is nothing in what we observed that proves he is not.”

  Ms. Washburn stopped attacking her keyboard and looked at me. Her expression was not one I could readily interpret. “Do you realize you’re acting differently with this client than you have with any other I’ve seen?” she asked.

  That was surprising. “I am not aware that I am doing anything of the sort, but I trust your judgment,” I told her. “In what way?”

  “You condescend to him,” she said slowly, considering. “Every observation you make about Tyler is about his difference. It’s about how he must not understand money, and he can’t possibly have gotten someone’s joke. You keep assuming he’s not as smart or as complete a person as our other clients, and I think it’s because he has a spectrum disorder.”

  I took a moment to consider. “According to societal convention, I have a spectrum disorder,” I reminded her.

  “Exactly. So you’re tougher on him than you would be on someone who doesn’t.”

  “I think you are mistaken,” I said.

  Ms. Washburn shrugged. “So if we need verifiable evidence, something absolutely objective, how do we get that?”

  “An excellent question.”

  “I try.”

  I pondered the problem at hand, which was how to verify specifically Richard’s feelings toward Tyler. “This is not my area,” I said to Ms. Washburn.

  She tilted her head to one side, indicating that she was being what Mother would call “coquettish,” but usually meant sarcastic. “So you should rely more heavily on my advice,” she said, “don’t you think?”

  “What is your advice?” I asked. “Remind me.”

  “Let me go talk to Richard. I can figure out if he’s leading Tyler to think he’s a friend so he can keep getting more ridiculously large tips.” She stood up. “I can go right now.”

  “That is precisely the reason you should not go,” I told Ms. Washburn. “Please sit down.”

  Oddly, she looked hurt. “I don’t feel like sitting down,” she said. She thought a moment. “Shouldn’t you be exercising, Samuel?”

  Ms. Washburn was correct; I was behind in my schedule. Every twenty minutes during the working day I walk the perimeter of the Questions Answered office thirteen times with my arms raised over my head to elevate my heart rate. I was now three minutes behind schedule. I stood and began my routine, but kept an eye on Ms. Washburn in case this was a diversion meant to distract me while she left to talk to Richard Handy.

  She did not attempt to leave, but she asked, “What is precisely the reason I shouldn’t go?”

  My voice came a little less easily as I made sure to walk at an accelerated pace. “You have already made up your mind about the question. On the basis of information that is not conclusive, you have decided that Richard is indeed not Tyler’s friend. So your questioning would be biased in that direction and therefore any information you gathered would not be completely reliable.”

  Ms. Washburn considered that, which was admirable on her part. Other people might have become defensive, denying what was obvious because their egos would have been bruised. She put a hand to her chin and stood silently for half a lap around the office.

  “I think I could be objective, but I see your point,” she said finally. “So what’s your solution?”

  “Clearly, the only alternative”—I took a deep breath on my third cycle around the office—“ is that I should be the one to talk to Richard.”

  “Aren’t you the one who said that asking him if he was Tyler’s friend would simply encourage him to lie and the information we got would be useless?” Ms. Washburn said.

  “Yes. That is exactly why I will not ask him that question.” Then I did not talk for four minutes and twenty-eight seconds as my breath was coming with more effort. Ms. Washburn’s eyes fluttered a bit, and she sat at her desk and typed on her computer keyboard.

  I believe, however, that I did hear her say something like, “I wish I’d have thought of that.” I am not certain whether it was meant to be taken sincerely.

  “Remember that Richard has never seen you before,” Ms. Washburn said. “So he has no idea you’ve ever met Tyler Clayton.”

  We were sitting in her car the next morning, at a closer vantage point to the Quik N EZ store in Somerset than the previous day, because this time we did not have to worry about Tyler appearing and in some way spoiling the mission at hand. His ritual was to come to the convenience store at eleven a.m., and it was now only eight thirty.

  “I am aware of those facts,” I assured her. “I will make no reference to having been hired by Tyler to answer the question. It would make the interview worthless as a fact-gathering device.”

  “And it would embarrass poor Tyler to the point of apoplexy,” Ms. Washburn suggested.

  “He will not be there,” I reminded her. “There would be no reason for him to be in any way affected.”

  Ms. Washburn closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Do you want to rehearse what you’re going to say?” she asked when she opened them again.

  The question took me back to days in middle school, before my “diagnosis,” when Mother did not have a strong sense of what made me different from the other children. She would make me practice, with her playing the role of a classmate, anytime I felt I would like to invite someone to our house to play chess or discuss specific models of fighter jets from the Second World War. The rehearsal rarely helped the cause.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said now. “I believe I can talk to a young man in a convenience store without having to follow a script.” Inwardly, however, I felt that a prepared outline would not have been a bad idea. The problem in doing so for conversations with other people is that they very rarely respond in the way you have prepared ahead of time. It is better not to anticipate an answer if you want to get an honest and useful conversation from the encounter.

  Ms. Washburn bit her lip. “Okay then,” she said. I did not ask her when it would be okay because I was fairly certain she was not referring to a particular time. “Remember, I’ll be watching with the telephoto. If you want me to hear what’s going on, just turn on your cell phone and keep it away from Richard’s view. I won’t say anything and blow your cover.”

  That was an
expression with which I was familiar, so I nodded. “I will be back soon,” I said.

  “You’d better be.”

  I got out of the car and closed the door behind me, wondering why Ms. Washburn had said that. I saw no danger in talking to Richard Handy at a convenience store. There was no reason to think I would not be returning to the car in just a few minutes. I decided that Ms. Washburn was attempting to be witty, which is always something of a problem for me to recognize. I did not turn back to ask her to elaborate. The task at hand was more urgent.

  Entering the Quik N EZ, I headed directly to the rear of the store, where there were large refrigerated units from which one could extract cold drinks for purchase. Ms. Washburn and I had decided that simply questioning Richard in the store would be suspicious and inconvenient, but buying something would make the conversation seem more natural and would, after all, reward the business for the time I would be monopolizing one of its employees.

  I removed a bottle of the spring water I usually buy from the vending machine at the Questions Answered office. I considered getting a diet soda for Ms. Washburn but rejected that notion because the questioning of Richard Handy might take a few minutes, after which the drink might not be at its peak temperature. Ms. Washburn has told me warm sodas are “a lot like drinking carbonated chemicals,” a situation anyone would prefer to avoid.

  There was not much business being done in the store at this hour, after most early-morning customers were at work and before the influx of those wanting to buy items during their lunch hour. This was a suburban area, but there were many businesses employing people nearby and surely the Quik N EZ relied on them for the bulk of its sales. So there was only one person ahead of me in line to purchase an item.

  But Richard Handy, currently processing the purchase of a lottery ticket at the far right end of the counter, was not the only employee currently working at the store. Another young man, perhaps a student, was standing directly in front of me when I approached and waited for Richard to conclude his business.

  “I can take you, sir,” the other young man said to me.

  “I would prefer to wait,” I said.

  He squinted at me as if I were very far away and difficult to see. “Huh?”

  “I would prefer to wait until your colleague can serve me,” I told him. I wondered if that was in some way insulting to the employee who was offering to sell me the bottle of water. “It’s not personal,” I added.

  “You sure? I can ring you up right now.” The young man didn’t seem insulted, as far as I could tell. He was exuding puzzlement more than anything else.

  “I am certain, but thank you for your offer.”

  There was no one behind me in line, so the employee who was not Richard Handy and I looked at each other as Richard completed the lottery ticket sale, which was quite complicated. The New Jersey Lottery has any number of games available and is affiliated with a number of national lotteries as well, so purchasing a ticket can be quite a complex affair.

  The woman buying the ticket finally appeared satisfied with her selection and walked away with her purchase. Then Richard walked back to his spot at the center of the counter. He looked at his colleague, then at me, then back at his colleague. The other young man shrugged.

  “He wanted to wait for you,” he said.

  Richard, up close, was not a very impressive man. He was of average height with flat hair that hung a little over his ears and thin lips that made it difficult to read his expression. “Can I help you?” he asked with what I perceived as a tinge of concern in his voice.

  “I believe you can,” I said. “I’d like to buy this bottle of spring water.” I stepped to the counter and placed the bottle down so I would not have to hand it directly to Richard.

  “Okay,” he said. He sounded like he was expecting me to say more, and it occurred to me he was wondering why I had made it a point of having him sell me the drink. I did not know how to address that issue, so I did not comment on it.

  Instead, I waited until he had scanned the UPC code on the bottle. “I understand you are a friend of Tyler Clayton,” I said.

  “That’s a dollar seventy-five,” Richard said. Then he looked up at me. “What?”

  But I was distracted. The vending machine at Questions Answered charged only one dollar and twenty-five cents for the same size bottle of the same brand of spring water. And when Les, the man who services the machine, comes once a week to collect the money and restock, he gives me back fifty cents on every bottle, meaning that even while earning a profit, the company selling the water really charges only seventy-five cents. The markup at Quik N EZ was clearly quite inflated.

  “How much is that?” I asked. Perhaps I had misheard the amount.

  “A dollar seventy-five. Who am I supposed to be friends with?” Richard’s eyes were not amused, as they had been when confronted with a customer who wanted to talk only to him.

  “That is a very high price,” I told him.

  “So don’t buy the water. I get paid the same whether you do or not. What’s going on with you?”

  The price of the water, I realized now, was irrelevant. I could deduct it as a business expense. I reached for my wallet and took out my debit card. He noticed that without comment. But I did not hand it to him. “Are you a friend of Tyler Clayton?” I asked again.

  “What are you, a cop?” Richard asked.

  “I am certainly not a police officer. I am not a private detective, and I do not hold any authority in any security force anywhere in the world.” Perhaps that last phrase was an example of overstating the point.

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Then why should I talk to you?” he asked.

  It was a good question and one that I had not considered to this point. “Because I am no threat to you or to Tyler and because I have asked you an honest question that deserves an answer. Are you a friend of Tyler Clayton?”

  Richard’s expression indicated he was considering his options. At least, that was the impression I took from it; reading faces is not my strong suit. He seemed to bite on the insides of his lips for a moment, then looked at me.

  “Who’s Tyler Clayton?” he asked.

  I felt the cellular phone in my pocket vibrate. No doubt Ms. Washburn had sent a text. I did not pull it out to look at it.

  “He is a young man about your age,” I said. “He comes into this store every day at approximately eleven a.m. to purchase a soda. He talks to you every day and at least once you have gone to his house to play the video games Assassin’s Creed and Elder Scrolls, and although he does not play in your group, he is a fellow participant in the role playing game Swords and Sorcerers. That is Tyler Clayton.”

  “Dude, you play S and S?” The other employee, obviously listening to our conversation while scanning a customer’s purchase, laughed derisively.

  Tyler’s face hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told me. “I’ve never heard of a Tyler somebody and I don’t play those games. So just give me the buck seventy-five or I’ll put the water back, okay?”

  I could not think of a response. At the same time, a woman carrying a large package of toilet tissue took a position behind me. My time with Richard was concluded.

  The debit card purchase would take too long, so reluctantly I pulled two one-dollar bills from my wallet and placed them on the counter. Then I picked up the bottle of water and walked out of the Quik N EZ.

  I felt my hands flapping slightly and controlled the impulse by putting my left hand to my face, thumb and middle finger on my temples, stopping on the street, and taking a breath. Then I reached into my pocket to read the text from Ms. Washburn.

  It read, You’re doing fine. I did not agree with the sentiment.

  I had gone into the convenience store with a clear mission and come out with inconclusive evidence. Richard Handy had claimed never to have heard of Tyle
r Clayton, who had given him a $100 tip the day before. It seemed impossible and worse, I had perhaps given Richard too much information about Tyler, which meant my client might be in for rude treatment or humiliation when he arrived at the store in a little over two hours.

  I looked to the car, angry with myself for my poor performance, and saw Ms. Washburn looking at me. Her expression was somewhat urgent, as if there were something she wanted to tell me. I took a step toward the car, but then she pointed to a spot behind me and to my right. I looked in that direction.

  The door to the Quik N EZ was open and Richard Handy was outside, walking toward me with his hand raised as if hailing a cab. “Sir,” he said, loudly enough to be heard from my position some twenty feet away, “you forgot your change.” Approaching me quickly, he held out a quarter.

  “That is not necessary,” I said when he was within earshot. “Keep it for your trouble.”

  Richard got closer, then closer still. I have been told that I have an inflated sense of personal space and do not care to have someone be near me, particularly if I do not know that person well. I must have recoiled a bit, although I was not aware of doing so. But Richard said, “Look, I just want to tell you something.”

  “What is it you need to say?” I asked, trying not to lean too far away from him.

  Richard spoke confidentially, almost in a whisper. “I didn’t want to admit it in front of Grant, you know?” he said. I assumed he was referring to his colleague at the convenience store counter. “Of course I know Tyler Clayton.”

  I tried to process that information. “Then you were lying when I asked,” I said. It was not an accusation, but an attempt at clarification.

  “Yeah,” Richard said. “I know the guy. He comes in every day. But he’s weird, you know? He buys a soda and he stares at me. Is he gay or something?”

  I had no idea what Tyler’s sexual identity might be, so I offered no speculation. “He has some personality traits that would make people say he has an autism spectrum disorder,” I said. I stumbled a bit on the word disorder but it was the best way to express the thought to Richard.