He would get the answers. Whatever it would cost him, he would get the answers.
He would find out why Larry Smith had let Ernie's parents die.
He would find out.
*****
Chapter 19
It was tough, but Dave managed to act in a relaxed and congenial fashion while working in the dishroom with Larry. Hiding his true emotions was crucial, for Dave didn't want to give Larry any reason to be more careful, to increase his already formidable secretiveness; he wanted Larry to feel completely at ease, as if there were no suspicions aimed in his direction.
Dave's determination to maintain a poker face didn't keep him from trying to draw Larry out, though. Amid the casual dishroom banter, he tossed in questions and comments which seemed innocent, but which were actually designed to elicit revealing reactions from Larry Smith.
Shortly after the start of the shift, Dave mentioned Ernie's parents. Tactfully, he asked if Larry had heard anything about the funeral arrangements.
Larry acted as if he was truly shocked by the news, as if he was hearing about the deaths for the first time.
"You mean you didn't know?" asked Dave, struggling to keep his own shock from his voice. In the past, Larry had acted as if he were remarkably forgetful and ignorant of what went on around him, but Dave hadn't expected him to deny all knowledge of the weekend's events.
"No," said Larry, pulling a rack of steaming platters from the dishwasher. "I didn't hear anything about it till now. Then again, I didn't work this weekend."
Dave stared at him; he could see no tension in the man's features or movements, nothing to suggest that he was concocting a lie. He was certainly lying-of that, there was no doubt-but his words had the steady, smooth rhythm of unquestionable truth. "I'm surprised no one told you about it yet," said Dave.
"I guess I'm still kind of new here," offered Larry, shrugging as if that explained his lack of briefing on the matter. "It's just terrible, though. You say it happened Saturday?"
Dave felt like dashing over and throttling the guy until he admitted the truth, confessed that he hadn't only known about the accident, but had known about it before it had taken place. "Yeah," he nodded, lifting a bus pan from the rack beside him. "They died on the way to Lancaster."
Sadly, Larry shook his head. "My God," he said. "That's just awful. Poor Ernie." He continued to pull platters from the rack, but his movements had slowed, as if to suggest that he'd been deeply affected by the news.
Dave's anger and disgust were becoming so great that he was having a hard time keeping them from coloring his speech. "I guess they were going a little too fast, and they hit a patch of ice," he said coolly.
"God," sighed Larry. "What a way to go. I guess you just never know when it's gonna' happen, huh?"
'You knew,' thought Dave, but all that he said was "I guess not."
"Boy," said Larry, slowly stacking the platters on the counter. "I can't believe it. Ernie was just telling me Friday night about them going. He said they could give me a ride to Lancaster if I ever needed one."
Casting a sideways glance at Larry, Dave was again surprised and rankled. Though the guy had denied knowing anything about the accident, he had the gall to mention his Friday conversation with Ernie. It was as if Larry knew of Dave's suspicions and was trying to head him off by bringing up the implicating conversation himself; by mentioning the prophetic discussion first, Larry was defusing the subject, giving it a harmless cast before Dave could spring any awkward questions on him.
Dave was furious at the wily evasion. He felt like abandoning all caution and fiercely grilling Larry about the event...but he knew that that would be unwise. Taking a deep breath, he maintained control over himself, decided to try a new tactic: if Larry could play dumb, then so could he.
"Is that what Ernie said?" he asked, keeping his voice at an appropriately querulous, mildly surprised pitch.
"Uh-huh," nodded Larry. "He told me his parents went to Lancaster often, and they'd be willing to take me along if I ever decided to go out that way."
"Wow," frowned Dave, digging dishes from the bus pan. "That's really something. Geez." Shaking his head, he slowly emptied the pan, feigning stunned grief over the tragically ironic offer that Ernie had made.
"Poor Ernie," sighed Larry. "I really feel for the guy. He have any brothers or sisters?"
"Yeah," supplied Dave. "One brother, two sisters, all younger than him."
"God," frowned Larry. "They're headed for some hard times."
"They sure are," said Dave, not at all convinced of his co-worker's sincerity, his mournful concern. "They sure are," he muttered, repulsed by Larry's performance. At the same time that he was digging through the slop in the bus pan, he felt as if he was immersed in another grade of slop, a foul muck secreted by the despicable liar across the dishroom.
'Why didn't you save them?' Dave wanted to scream. 'You knew they were going to die, so why didn't you save them?'
He wanted desperately to let it all fly, to hurl accusations with such force that Larry's facade would crumble and the truth would spill out of him. He wanted to get everything into the open right then and there, didn't want to waste another instant playing along with the guy's facile perjury.
It wasn't easy, but he restrained himself.
He returned his full attention to his work, ending the futile exchange.
To say the least, he was disappointed and annoyed. Though he hadn't honestly expected any kind of breakthrough, he'd still held out hope for some sort of minor advance, some puny trifle of a clue which might later inspire valuable deductions. Unfortunately, he hadn't been handed a single crumb which he could use.
His feeling of disappointment didn't last long, however. He soon reminded himself that there were other steps to be taken, other measures which might be more fruitful. Though the questioning had failed, there was still reason to hope that his next moves would turn up something.
The more that he thought about his next maneuvers, the more hopeful he felt. If Larry wouldn't volunteer the information which he sought, Dave would do his best to obtain it himself.
If Larry wouldn't hand him the key, then Dave would steal it.
*****
The manager on duty at the Wild West Steakhouse that afternoon was Tom Martin, the autocratic and obnoxious martinet whom nearly all the employees despised. Martin was crude and inflexible, clumsy and boastful, arrogant and misanthropic; he was also incredibly careless, lax in his own duties, and this would make it easy for Dave to get into the personnel files.
Shortly before five o'clock, Martin decided to run to the bank and deposit the day's cash receipts. Normally, such a deposit would be made earlier, around three or four o'clock, but Martin had put it off or forgotten about it until the last minute.
Once he finally made up his mind to go, Martin had just enough time to gather what he needed and make it to the bank before it closed. Since the bank was located in the mall, just across the parking lot, it wouldn't take him long to get there and make the deposit.
Cash-filled satchel in hand, Martin made two quick stops before dashing out of the steakhouse. First, he hustled over to the broiler cook and informed him that he would be gone for a few minutes; as was the practice when a manager had to leave the premises, the broiler cook was put in charge, told to keep an eye on things until the boss returned.
Martin's second stop was the dishroom. Breathlessly, he barreled through the dishroom door, nearly bowling over a busboy who was on his way out to the dining room. Face red, hair mussed, Martin shouted to Dave and Larry that he would be absent for a short time; as if to dissuade the two from slacking off while he was gone, Martin commanded them to help get the dining room cleaned-up, warned them that he would know about it when he got back if they didn't. Before Dave or Larry could reply, he was gone, leaving the dishroom door to flap in his wake.
As soon as he heard Martin's hurried bulletin, Dave realized that he had a chance to make his next move. Though time was
short, for Martin would be back quite soon, he waited a minute or two before proceeding, so as not to appear too obvious to Larry Smith.
Dave finished filling two racks of dishes and one rack of silverware, then wiped his hands on his apron and grabbed an empty bus pan. Informing Larry that he was going to start on the dining room, as Martin had instructed, Dave ducked out of the dishroom.
Toting the bus pan loosely at his side, he marched down the short hall toward the dining room, then stopped by the office door. The door should have been locked tight, but Martin had obligingly left it wide-open.
Quickly glancing around to make sure that no one was watching him, Dave slipped into the office. He closed the door halfway, just enough so that no one would be able to see him when he went to work on the filing cabinet.
Mentally, he began counting down the handful of minutes that he'd left to accomplish his mission. There really wasn't much time; Martin would be back in about five minutes, depending on how long the lines were at the bank. In addition, Dave had to bus some tables before Martin returned, just to make it look as though he'd followed the manager's orders. Dave also wanted to get back to the dishroom quickly so that Larry wouldn't grow suspicious over his absence. One minute, maybe two, was all that Dave had to spend in the office.
He knew exactly where the personnel files were located, had seen the managers pull them from the third drawer of the cabinet. He'd seen the files withdrawn by other individuals as well, fellow workers clandestinely checking their status when the bosses weren't around. As long as the cabinet wasn't locked, he would have an easy time of it, could just dive right in and find what he wanted.
Whenever Mr. Wyland, the executive manager, was on duty, the cabinet was always sealed, locked tightly against prying fingers. Usually, however, Mr. Martin left it open; at the start of his shift, the cabinet would be unlocked, then would stay that way until the end of the workday, sometimes longer. Sometimes, the files wouldn't be secured again until the next day, when meticulous Fred Wyland would come in and notice his associate's lapse.
As expected, the third drawer slid easily open. The employee files were right in front, arranged in alphabetical order. Riffling back through the manila index tabs, Dave scanned the names which were typed neatly upon them; he spotted his own name and was tempted to pull his file, see if there were any negative notations of which he wasn't aware...but he remembered how little time he had, and dismissed the idea.
Combing through the index tabs, he finally found the one that he'd been seeking, the one marked "Smith, Lawrence." Anxiously, he tugged the file from the drawer, noting where it had been so that he could reinsert it in the proper spot. Still heeding the crucial countdown in his head, he immediately flipped open the pale folder.
His jaw dropped.
He was stunned. The file's contents weren't at all what he'd expected.
The folder was empty except for one sheet.
One sheet. There should have been at least a thin stack of papers in there, but there was only one sheet.
Though Larry had only been working at the steakhouse for two weeks, his file still should have been more substantial. Whenever an employee was hired, lots of paperwork was generated and then deposited in that new worker's file. Larry's folder should have contained a number of items: the standard Wild West application, five pages in length; several tax forms; a copy of a physical report, signed by a doctor; releases and agreements bearing the signatures of Larry and Mr. Wyland; and assorted documents of interest only to the corporate lawyers.
The file on Larry Smith held but a single page. Though this in itself was unusual, what was written on that page was even more startling. In no way did the notations conform to any regulation paperwork that Dave had ever seen at the steakhouse.
The page was a sheet of corporation letterhead with the Wild West trademark logo embossed in brown in the upper right corner. In the center of the page, Larry Smith's name and a phone number were scrawled in longhand; Dave recognized the sloppy, sprawling handwriting as that of Tom Martin.
Beneath the name and phone number, printed neatly and underlined twice, was a single word. Uncomprehendingly, Dave stared at it, fixed his eyes to it as if hypnotized.
"Special," it said. "Special."
One page in the entire file; a name and a phone number; one word; a puzzle.
"Special."
For a moment, Dave just stood in the office and stared unbelievingly at the word. It wasn't at all what he'd expected to find when he'd pulled Larry's file from the cabinet. He'd come seeking information, some kind of clue in the pile of paperwork which he'd thought the folder would contain. Though he hadn't known specifically what he'd been looking for, he'd hoped to get lucky, come across some bit of data which might get the gears turning in his mind.
He'd come seeking something which might help him solve a puzzle, only to find another puzzle instead.
"Special."
Suddenly, Dave snapped out of his contemplation, again became aware of the crucial countdown. Twisting around, he gaped at the wall-clock on the other side of the office, realized that he'd spent too much time at the files. Tom Martin could come rumbling back into the steakhouse at any minute.
Cursing himself for lingering too long in such a dangerous position, Dave stole a final look at the mysterious note. He committed the phone number to memory, then slapped Larry's folder shut and replaced it in the drawer. Hastily closing the drawer, he scooped his bus pan from the floor, then paused at the door; he peeped cautiously through the doorway to confirm that the coast was clear, that no one had their eye on the office at that moment.
Satisfied that he could safely exit, Dave swung the door open and whisked out of the office. He hustled to the dining room and began to bus tables, doing his best to clear enough of them to mollify Martin when he returned.
All the while, two things ran through his mind. He thought about the phone number, wondered if it was indeed a means of contacting Larry. Its proximity to his name on the note seemed to suggest that it was, but Dave remembered that Larry didn't have a phone in his room. Was it perhaps the number of the bar in Larry's building?
Dave also thought about the word that he'd seen. He could picture it as vividly as if it were still right there in front of him; in fact, the image was so clear and powerful that he couldn't fit much else in his mind.
"Special."
It had been printed neatly and underlined twice. In some way, it was significant, else it wouldn't have been so boldly inscribed.
"Special."
He wondered what it meant. He wondered what it had to do with Larry.
"Special."
He began to get a feeling.
"Special."
He began to get a feeling that it was the most important word that he'd seen in his entire life. He began to get a feeling that it was as much an answer as a puzzle.
*****
Tom Martin lived in Beckley, a borough adjacent to Highland Township. The manager's home was just a five-minute drive from the steakhouse.
Dave had been to Martin's house once before. He'd made the visit against his will, along with several other Wild West employees; Martin had drafted them into helping him erect a shed in his back yard. The shed incident had been yet another example of Martin's overbearing ways and abuse of power, the unreasonable demands that he so often made of his workers. Not only had he coerced Dave and the others with no trace of courtesy or graciousness, but he hadn't compensated them for their labors and hadn't even thanked them. It had been a typical Tom Martin performance, one which had left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who had been a party to it.
Dave hoped that his imminent visit would be a less aggravating one. He was going of his own initiative, at least, and didn't expect any forced labor; he would be able to leave at any time that he wanted, and he wouldn't have to worry about receiving compensation from Martin. Dave was only going to Martin's house because he had to conduct some delicate business and needed privacy, privacy
that was impossible to find at the steakhouse.
As he neared Martin's neighborhood, Dave thought about what he would say during his visit. He wasn't quite sure how he would approach the manager, how he would go about obtaining the information that he sought.
Dave planned to inquire about Larry Smith's file; he wanted to know why it didn't contain any of the customary paperwork and he wanted to find out what the "Special" notation meant. In order to broach this subject, however, he would have to reveal that he'd infiltrated the personnel files. Dave didn't think that Martin would react well to such a revelation; company policy stipulated that employees weren't allowed to touch those files, and Martin was the type of guy who would pounce on any violation of company policy. No doubt, the surly manager would seize the opportunity to punish Dave, would overreact and perhaps even fire him.
Dave struggled to think of a way to question Martin without putting himself at risk...but he came up with nothing. If he wanted to learn the story behind the file, he would have to divulge the fact that he'd seen it, that he'd been snooping in records which were off-limits to him.
If he tried to be subtle, it was unlikely that he would get anywhere near the data that he was after. Dave was convinced that Larry's file was incriminating to Martin; the absence of standard paperwork violated company rules, and the lack of appropriate tax forms was certainly against the law. If Dave were to ask general questions about Larry, trying to lead Martin by an indirect route to the crux of his interest, Dave felt sure that the manager would volunteer nothing about the file, wouldn't bring it to his attention because it was proof of wrongdoing.
No, subtlety wouldn't work. If Dave wanted to snag anything important, he would have to be direct, fire his questions at the bull's-eye. Despite the risk, the chance that Martin might boot him out of his job, Dave would have to come right out with it, describe what he'd seen and ask what it meant.
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