Train to Anywhere

by David George Howard

  ***

  "Are you Gloria Jorgenson's mother?" Thomas asked through the screen door.

  "I don't speak to no cops," she answered.

  They had driven across town to find Gloria's mother. It was the worst slum that Harris knew in town. Garbage and grimy children mixed in the streets and alleys. The living quarters were barely shacks, leaning and leaking onto one another. Knifings were a regular occurrence in the area, usually between drunks who managed to find the cheap liquor. They had parked in the street and walked up the rotting wooden stairs to Mrs. Jorgenson's living quarters.

  "Mrs. Jorgenson," Harris said, "we may have some disturbing news about your daughter, and we need your cooperation." She stepped away from the screen, and the two of them entered. They were standing in the kitchen, as it was, and really had no desire to go further into the quarters.

  "What about Gloria?" she asked.

  "When's the last time you saw your daughter?" Thomas asked.

  Mrs. Jorgenson rubbed her hands across her stained housedress. Her hands were a display of ground-in dirt and ragged fingernails. "Been about six months, last time. She was all dressed up like some flapper. Woun't even sit on the furniture."

  Harris knew it was going to be difficult to get her to cooperate, but they had to do the best they could. "Was she with a man named Jackson LaRue?"

  "She mentioned someone like that. But no, she was alone. She wouldn't even tell me where she lived. She left home at 14 or 15 and didn't tell me much after that. For all I know, she was living on the moon," she said, letting a gravelly laugh slip out.

  "Do you know the names of any of the people she worked with or associated with?" Thomas asked.

  "No. Boys were always after her."

  "Does the name Clarence McBride sound familiar?" Harris asked. He waited for any kind of expression to see if the name was the least bit of interest. None.

  "Don't know the man. Why? You said something happened to her."

  "We're sorry to say she was found dead in her apartment yesterday. Looks like a murder," Thomas said.

  "Hm," she said. "She leave any money?"

  "We're not sure of the state of her assets," Harris said.

  "Don't care about assets. Just want her money. A girl dresses like that, has to have money."

  Thomas took the picture from his pocket that he had brought from her apartment. "Is this Gloria, ma'am?"

  Mrs. Jorgenson looked at the photo for several long seconds. A hint of emotion crossed her face, but then it fell away. "That's her."

  "Does she have any other immediate family?" Harris asked.

  "Her Daddy ran away and died in some rail yard. My boy's in jail."

  Harris turned to Thomas. "Well, that's about all we can do here."

  Thomas said, "Yes. Thank you, ma'am."

  Mrs. Jorgenson made no reply, other than to look beyond them out the screen door. The two of them left and went down to the car, which had gathered a small crowd of curious children. The kids scattered as soon as they walked up, but they remained close enough to watch the pair get into the car.

  "That's got to be the saddest thing I've ever seen," Harris said once they were in.

  "There's thousands more just like her," Thomas said. "Where'd you come from?"

  "Middle class. Graduated from University of Maryland," Harris said. Thomas started the car and began to pull away. "Yourself?"

  "Boston. We were poor, but nothing like this. My mom and dad are still together. Army did the trick for me." Thomas guided the car around the potholes and ruts in the road as they drove out of the area.

  19

  Mr. Aron had hired a replacement for LaRue, a young man from Louisville who came in with an armful of coats he had designed. Eddie took vague notice as the new man quickly became involved in much the same work activities as Mr. LaRue. The other workers did much the same and let the new designer go about his job. For the next week, he heard nothing on either Mr. LaRue's or Gloria's murder, nor did Harris contact him about any further details. As he was waiting at the trolley stop after work, a new Lincoln Coupe pulled up to the curb. The passenger window was rolled down, and the man inside leaned over to talk to Eddie.

  "Hey, pal, how are you this afternoon?" the man asked.

  "Fine. What can I do for you?" Eddie asked. He stayed a good distance from the car.

  "Tell you what," the man said, checking his mirrors and looking around. "I'm not going to be cute here, but I think we need to talk. Hop in and we'll take a short ride."

  "Just leave me alone."

  "Let's do this. I'll pull up a ways and shut off the motor. I'll even let you have the keys. Got a friend who wants to pass along some information. To be honest, you're going to hear what he has to say whether you want to or not."

  McBride had to be behind this, but Eddie also knew he might have no other choice than to hear what this man had to say. He walked ahead about fifty feet, and the car followed him. The man shut off the engine and opened the door. Eddie stood there a moment, then the man tossed the keys to him, which he caught and put in his pocket.

  "Come on, pal. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "I'm leaving the door open," Eddie said as he approached the coupe.

  "Suits me. Nice car, huh? Top of the line. Got a strong engine. It'll run a V-8 Caddy off the road. Unfortunately, I didn't come here to talk cars. We got a mutual friend who wants to be sure you understand him."

  "McBride?" Eddie asked.

  "Sure. Sorry, I promised not to get cute." The man had been facing forward, but now turned in his seat towards Eddie. He was pleasant looking, Eddie thought, and could have been a grocer in a nice suit. "Let me start over. I'm Mike."

  "No last name, Mike?" Eddie asked.

  "None needed. My friend McBride is worried about his welfare. He's really a good man, got a wife and two kids, you know."

  "Is that so?"

  "Sure. This thing that happened at the plant a few days ago could look pretty ugly if anything happened, understand, if the cops started digging around."

  "I saw who did it. McBride killed LaRue." Eddie was not sure what made him say that, boldness was never one of his virtues. Still, Mike's reaction was interesting to watch. It was almost like he had stubbed his little toe.

  "Yes, an unfortunate accident. We both know what happened, but all we can do is be sure no one else gets hurt." Mike waited a moment, and then his expression turned serious. "That includes you. If you start talking to the cops, there's going to be more trouble than you'll ever want. That includes you and your family. No one talks to the cops."

  "Who killed Gloria?"

  "Now, that's a sorry problem," Mike said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment.

  "Somehow they think I did it. I was there, but she was very alive when I left." Eddie was surprised at how he was unafraid of talking to this man. Maybe it was the fact that Mike knew everything about the murder that made this easier.

  "See, I don't know much about that. A dead girl? Naw. All I can tell you is that you need to keep your mouth shut. No cops, no lawyers, nothing. You got too much to lose." Mike stopped drumming his fingers and ran his hand along the top of the wheel, then down to his left side.

  "How can I say nothing? They think I killed her. They want to send me to jail, and all I did was go out on one date. I lost my wallet at her place." Eddie was sure the police would come and arrest him eventually. Now, he was sure he had been set up, and it was likely McBride.

  "Did you get your wallet back?"

  "Not yet."

  "I wouldn't worry too much about that, if I were you. It's real simple. Talk to the cops, you're dead. You know how people disappear in this city," Mike said. He had kept his voice low the entire time, giving the chilling affect of sounding friendly, but dangerous at the same time.

  Eddie reached into his pocket and took the keys out. He slid them across the dashboa
rd, and the man caught them with a quick sweep of his hand. "Thanks for the advice."

  Mike's face relaxed, then he said, "We both know what happened, but there's no reason to go around talking about it. That's only going to make things worse."

  Eddie stepped out and shut the door behind him. Mike started the engine, and pulled away, the big motor effortlessly moving the car away from the curb and into traffic.

  20

  McBride was upset. He was sitting in his car in front of the courthouse, waiting to go in to talk to Harris. Not only had he found out that morning that he was having a difficult time securing funding for a group of houses on the west side, but he had also been called in to talk to this weasel, Harris. He knew Harris was going to be nothing but trouble as soon as he was elected. McBride should have tried harder to keep him out of office, but he had not imagined Harris would win the election. There had been no indications that he was anything but a backwater candidate, well out of his league. Still, he was not going to talk to Harris without his attorney at his side, and McBride would wait in his car all day if he had to.

  He did not have to wait long, for a few minutes later he heard a tapping on the passenger window and saw that it was Donald Bowers. McBride got out of the car and said, "Where you been? I don't have all day."

  "Kiss my butt," Donald said. "If you'd stay out of trouble, we wouldn't be down here."

  "I do whatever I want. I pay you to keep me out of trouble. Got it?" McBride said as they walked up the steps to the City Hall building.

  "Like we said yesterday, he doesn't have a thing on you. All he said is he wants to talk. That means he talks to me. You keep quiet unless I say so," Donald said.

  "Keep quiet. It's what I do best." McBride had known Donald Bowers for years, and each knew the other's limits. Donald had gotten him out of numerous scrapes with the law.

  "Go fuck yourself," Bowers said as they walked up the steps to the building. "Now, where's this idiot's office?" They went into the lobby and found a board listing all the offices in the building. After a few moments, they were able to locate the correct office and began to climb to the third floor.

  More than a few people had recognized McBride when he and Bowers had entered the building. The attention McBride had brought was not lost on either of them, and he was not sure if the people were glad, scared, or indifferent to see him. Probably some of each, he reasoned. "Press," McBride said, when he saw a familiar person sitting on a bench on the other side of the lobby.

  "Him? He's an ass for sure. He's coming over here to see if there's some trash he can dig out."

  "McBride," the reporter said, as he approached. "Don't see you here too often."

  "Stay out of our way, if you know what's good for you," Bowers said, not bothering to slow.

  "Just saying hello," the reporter said, going back to the bench.

  They climbed the stairs to make their way down the hall to Harris's office. Before going into the office, Donald put his hand on McBride's shoulder and stopped him for a moment. "Remember what I told you. I do the talking," Donald said.

  McBride stepped forward and started pushing the door open. "Agreed."

  As soon as they entered the office area, everyone working there turned around and looked at the two of them. After a few seconds, work started again, but McBride could tell they were still being watched by most of the people sitting at the desks. Scared rats in a bunch of cages, he thought. Once, when he was young, a local grocer paid boys in the neighborhood to kill rats, paying them five cents for each one caught. McBride found some younger boys to catch them for him at two cents each. When he started presenting them to the grocer in groups of ten and twenty, the deal ended.

  "Where's Harris?" Donald asked the closest person.

  "Third door down," the young man said.

  They walked to the office door. Harris was reading a report and started when they walked in. The head rat, McBride thought, as the scruffy man quickly closed the report he was reading and did his best to compose himself.

  "Don't you two knock before entering a room?" Harris said.

  "Why? What good is that going to do us?" Donald said. "You called us down here. What do you want?"

  Harris looked at them for a moment, clearly deciding how to respond, a reaction that Donald had no doubt counted on. "Have a seat. I need to ask the two of you a few questions about a couple of things."

  "Don't waste our time with that nonsense," Donald said. "If you can't figure it out on your own, why'd you take the job?"

  Harris paused to consider what was just said. Instead of engaging them in any verbal sparring, he pulled out a file from the top of the pile to his right. McBride honestly could not believe the condition of the man's office. If this was the best man for the job, McBride could do whatever he wanted in this town. Maybe if he could keep Harris's caseload flooded with petty crimes, the cops would be too busy to do much else. Harris took the file, opened it up in front of him, and began to scan the sheet before pulling a newspaper from a table behind him.

  "There was an incident you may have read about in the paper a couple of nights ago," Harris said, folding the paper and tossing it across the desk so they could read the headline.

  Donald shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry to hear that, but what's that got to do with us?"

  "I'm afraid I did not catch your name. I'm Jerome Harris. Jerry."

  After a few moments, Donald said, "I'm Donald Bowers, attorney for Mr. McBride. Now, what the hell does this have to do with my client?"

  "Very simple. We know there was a connection between Mr. McBride and the victim, Gloria Jorgenson."

  "She worked for me at one time," McBride began to say, before Donald put his hand on McBride's arm.

  "Can you elaborate on that relationship?" Harris asked.

  "I need to talk to my client privately for a moment," Donald said.

  "I thought you would have done that before coming up here. There's an empty office two doors down. Take a few minutes, but we don't have all day around here."

  Donald groaned and stood. McBride and Donald went to the office and closed the door. "Now what have you gotten me into? Did you know this girl?"

  "She worked for me a few years ago. I own the apartment building she was living in." McBride knew that Harris had learned all of this already, since any investigator, no matter how inept, could put that together. Aside from that, he did not intend to talk about any other aspects of their acquaintance.

  "Did you know this had happened? I mean, if you'd known her, seems you'd hear this had happened." Donald was getting agitated and was pacing around the room, fumbling with the change in his pocket.

  "The building manager called the office. I called him back. He said the cops were all over the place," McBride said.

  "Looks like this snitch thinks you're involved some way." Donald stopped pacing around the small office. "You weren't, were you?"

  "Hell, no."

  Donald looked McBride straight in the eye for a few long moments, then said, "Start talking about how you know her or you'll be going back in that room alone."

  One thing McBride never liked was being told what to do. The only people he seldom objected to about this were his wife and Donald Bowers. Donald had gotten him out of so many problems that McBride had come to respect his legal acumen. Part of the verbal pushing and shoving was just how Donald did business. McBride had come to expect this and often worked the same way. "She walked into one of my bars about seven years ago. She was a skinny kid. Dirty, ignored, abused. She didn't have nothin'. For a kid that never went to school, she did real good. I don't think she had eaten in a couple days, so I put her to work cleaning the place. She stuck around, continued to work for me from time to time. I put her up in the apartment so's she have a nice place to live."

  "What was she really like? What kind of person was she? She turning tricks, too?" Donald asked.

  McBride w
ondered what the point of the question was, but then he could not help thinking of pinning her to the floor in the hotel room with a solid grip on her hair. She had worked for him but then turned and decided to start skimming cash. Now he had to have her taken out. "She was no whore. Her life was hard from the start, and a person can't get that out of themselves. Nice clothes and good manners don't cover everything. She was tough. Could take anything dished out to her. I'm sad this all happened."

  Donald stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and paced around the room a couple of times, his head down. "Let's go back in."

  They went back to Harris's office and sat down in front of the desk again. Harris had been reading the newspaper article, and he put it back on the desk when they were seated.

  "Did you come to any conclusions?" Harris asked.

  "My client knew her. Worked for him for a few years," Donald said.

  "Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?" Harris asked.

  "Come on, copper," Donald said. "Where's this all going? Do you really think we're going to help you out here? You got elected to this job, go do it."

  Harris appeared to let the comment pass without acknowledgement. "You fellas need to give me some information. We got a case. I know you own the building she lived in. An acquaintance said the victim had mentioned she knew you."

  "So what the hell. She knew lots o' people. You're going to call all them in, too? You do and we'll start talkin'. 'Til then, you're on your own," Donald said.

  "I can get a summons to get you to talk, if that's the way you want to play it." Harris said.

  "That's the way we want to play it," Donald said, mimicking Harris. "I think you got nothin' and you're trying anything you can think of. We all know this is more than a routine questioning. You think Mr. McBride had anything to do with this?"

  "All I know is that there was a relationship here. I can't form any conclusions from that."

  Donald got up from his seat, and McBride did likewise. "Looks like you got nothin' but a handful of bad police work. Same thing you dimwits always have."

  Harris looked up at the two of them. McBride could not help noticing the rings under his eyes and the vague attempt at covering a receding hairline with a homemade haircut. This guy was not going to last a year. "You got nothin', and you need to leave me alone," McBride said.

  "One thing before you leave," Harris said as they stepped over to the door. "I want you to take a look at this report. Normally, it's against practice to do this, but I think it's important."

  Donald took the sheet out of his hand and began to read through the description. McBride looked down the sheet and saw cause of death as suffocation. Jimmy had done his job. Before he turned away, he saw the words, "sexual violation." The report went on to state that there were indications of forced intercourse not long before her death. McBride read the line over three or four times, and had a difficult time believing that Eddie would have done that. Jimmy was the one. "I don't get it. Why do you want us to read this?" Donald asked. He started to hand the report back to Harris, but McBride took it from him.

  "What else do you know about this?" McBride asked.

  "Most of it is there," Harris said. He took the report from McBride and put it in the folder. Harris placed the folder with the stack of other folders scattered around on his desk. "The thought is that she was knocked unconscious, a fall or something, and then was suffocated. Somewhere in that time she was unconscious, she was raped."

  Those last few words hung over McBride like a gathering cloud as he turned the events over in his mind. No funny stuff, that's what he had said. Jimmy would have knocked her out before he killed her. He knew what to do, but then what had he done from there? "What's the time for something like that?"

  "A rape and murder? I would guess twenty years to life, if he's lucky," Harris said.

  "Serious crime?"

  "Very."

  The three of them remained silent; Donald and McBride standing, and Harris sitting behind his desk, all three staring at the report. There was a light knock at the door. "Give me a minute," Harris said.

  "Let's go," Donald said. The two of them left the office and went down the hall to the stairway. Donald stopped before stepping off the top stair. "You going to be fine with this?"

  "Don't worry about me," McBride said. Then went down the stairs to the foyer and out the front of the building.

  "Give me a call if he gives you any more problems," Donald said, then went to his car.

  McBride watched him drive away and thought over what he had heard a few minutes ago. Gloria was supposed to die, but not that way. Her death was an unfortunate fact of doing business, but he did not want to have this type of thing happen. Make it easy. Don't let her suffer. No funny stuff. Everything he had told Jimmy, and come to expect from him, but now he screwed it up in a few minutes of bad judgment. McBride got into his car, and he was about to start it up when the advice from his cousin entered his thoughts. He turned this over in his mind for a few minutes before an idea began to form, and he saw that maybe Jimmy had done him a favor. A smart smile crossed his face as he pointed the car down the street. He had some planning to do, but he needed to act fast.

  21

  Mayor Porter was a large man in body and personality. He had never heard a discussion or argument he did not voice his opinion on, or a steak he did not like. This was what he had built his political life around. There were enemies and bruised emotions, but he was never one to lose sleep over anything. This morning, as he settled into his chair behind the enormous oak desk that was built at his request, he picked up the paper and began to scan the headlines. After a few seconds, he found the article on Gloria's murder, and knew he was going to have to call in Harris. The guy was elected with his backing to fight crime, but this kind of problem kept coming up. He hated to do this on a Tuesday before his lunchtime bridge game, but it had to be done. After that designer guy was knocked off, Porter thought there had to be some reckoning. Now he had no choice, so he picked up the phone. "Get Harris over here." He also called down to the coroner's office to get what information he could on the murder. Then it was time to look into a new road construction project that was giving him problems. The governor would be at the bridge game, and he owed him a favor, plus about $50.

  At 2:00, he returned from the game refreshed and ready to take on the rest of the day. Porter bounded up the steps of the city building and burst into his office. "Mr. Harris is waiting for you," his secretary said.

  "Shit," Mayor Porter said under his breath. "How long has he been waiting?"

  "About thirty minutes."

  Porter stood before the entrance to his outer waiting room wondering if it did much good to keep Harris on ice any longer. In a way, the long card game had served a purpose besides getting his highway plan settled. Harris would no doubt be on edge. Porter decided to just get on with it and stepped into the room. "Harris," he said as soon as the door closed. "We need to talk about the girl's murder. Get in my office."

  "Mayor—Billy—there are a few interesting circumstances with this case," Harris said following him in.

  "'Interesting'? Why don't you just tell me what the hell is going on? I got people running around killing each other in my city," Porter said, walking over to the window.

  "This would seem to be a fairly simple case, but it looks to be related to another murder a few weeks ago," Harris said.

  "That designer guy? What's the deal with that one? How come you haven't caught anybody yet?" the mayor said, continuing to look out the window.

  "We're still looking into that one also."

  "Now, you said there was some connection." The mayor tilted his head back and crossed his arms. He had been a trial lawyer in the past and seldom missed a chance to begin the theatrics. "I need to get to the point on this. I have a council meeting in thirty minutes. If you want a budget for your office, I better
hear some progress."

  "Actually, yes, we have gotten somewhere. It seems the same man was present at both murders, though we can't say he actually performed the murders," Harris said.

  "You pulled this guy into custody, right?" Mayor Porter said, moving away from the window.

  "Like I said, we don't have the evidence to link him up yet."

  "Wait," the Mayor said, pointing at Harris while keeping one arm across his body. "You have the same person in the vicinity of the murders, and you haven't made an arrest?"

  "There are some circumstances..." Harris started to say. However, he was cut off by the Mayor's fleshy fist coming down onto the desk. His penholder jumped up and clattered back into place.

  "What the hell do you mean? He's at the same location—you must have proven that—and he's still out there?" Porters face began to turn a shade of red. "I don't understand. What more do you need? Isn't the fact that he was in both places enough? By this time, he should be thinking about how he looks in stripes. Oh, sure," Mayor Porter said, spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture. "A murder happens, and this Houdini just magically disappears. Is this man Houdini?"

  "Well, the cases are related."

  "Harris, I asked if this man is Houdini?"

  "There are circumstances."

  "Is...this...man...Houdini?" Porter yelled. "Answer the question."

  "No, he is not."

  "Then go arrest him, or I will have it done."

  "I just can't do that. It looks like Clarence McBride is also involved with each case," Harris said.

  "I don't care if Pontius Pilate himself was there. Get this man off the street. Do your job."

  "I am," Harris protested. "This has to be done correctly, or an innocent man goes to jail. With McBride being in the mix, it complicates the matter."

  Porter put his head down and crossed his arms again. He took a couple of deep breathes. "Tell me the McBride connection."

  "Sir, I have to be careful who I talk to about this," Harris said.

  "Jerry, who are you talking to here? Give me the details."

  Harris hesitated a moment, then said, "What's mentioned does not leave this room."

  "Agreed."

  "It's very simple, the man at the crime scene at the shirt factory claims McBride performed the murder. The victim's girlfriend, the young lady on page one there, used to work for McBride. He even owns the building she was living in."

  Porter paced back and forth a few times. "Tell me more about how this man turns up at both locations." Harris went into some of the details of the investigation. At the end of the description, the Mayor looked at his watch and said, "This young man shows up at both places. I want his ass off the streets. I got a meeting in a few minutes I have to get ready for."

  "What about McBride?" Harris asked. "There's no way to ignore he's involved with both."

  Mayor Porter clapped his hands together lightly. "No, there isn't. So what do you do about it?"

  "How well do you know him?" Harris asked. This was a loaded question since every politician in the city knew McBride or knew of him.

  "I've talked to him a few times, but haven't we all?" Porter said, fixing a stern glare at Harris. "I know when you got elected, he was very upset, though he thought you wouldn't last a month. He'll give you the runaround, Jerry."

  "How dangerous is he? Would he do something like this?" Harris asked.

  "I wouldn't know. We're only political associates. Anything outside of that, and I can't help you. People talk, but how much can you believe?"

  Porter began moving towards the door, intending to have Harris leave. "He's hard to get to," Harris said.

  Porter slapped him on the back as he opened the door. "Never said it would be easy."

  Harris was ushered out of the office with no further discussion, though he tried. Mayor Porter shut the door and sat down behind his desk. The news he had just heard was disturbing, to say the least. McBride had a reputation, but he was also a man who had quietly helped sway voters in his favor during the last election. To say they were associates would be an exaggeration, but any connection like this could be a political problem. This had to be shut up quickly. It was then that he noticed the report on his desk he had asked for earlier. He opened it up and found a typed copy of the coroner's report, with the words describing forced sexual intercourse too prominent to miss. He closed the report. Not only was there a killer out there, there was a rapist, certainly not a style he would attribute to McBride. Still, two high-profile people had been taken out in a matter of weeks, and there was a path, however weak, back to one of his benefactors. Not good, but interesting. Then he tried to put it into context. The man Harris described probably did it, so Harris had to do his job and get him behind bars. Then, if McBride were in some way related to the crimes, there might be a brief embarrassing time where Porter would claim humility and shame of having worked with him. Public life was never for those who worried. In the end, this would work out. Porter put the problem in the back of his mind and left to find out why they were having problems putting streetlights up in Lower South Providence. He had voters there.

  22

  When LaRue was murdered, Harris started looking into Eddie's background. At first, that background looked like any one of thousands of young men living in Providence. Eddie had moved there recently, but this in itself was not unusual as people drifted around all the time, looking for work or needing to move on in life. The Houdini reference was typical of the mayor, and despite the situation under which the question was delivered, a tired smile crossed his face. Harris looked at the clock on the wall—he had an aversion to wristwatches—and saw it was now 7:00pm and a couple of hours of work ahead of him. He had been doing this for years, he told himself, trying to rub the fatigue out of his eyes. The files he needed to read were small enough that he could take them with him and read as he ate dinner. He took the folders, stuffed them into a dilapidated leather briefcase, and headed out the door. A few minutes later, he was at a delicatessen eating a corned beef sandwich.

  Harris loved corned beef and ate too much of it. He took a few more bites and remembered the café in Baltimore his father would take him to on Saturdays. Week after week he would order the corned beef, and every time his father would ask him to try a different sandwich. His reason then was the same as now. He liked corned beef. He washed down a bite with black coffee, and with his spirits much improved, opened a report about the background on Eddie. As he began to scan from page to page, the sandwich was forgotten, and the sour mood came back. He had a problem.