was almost full. It was about 4:00 p.m. I wondered what kind of hours Barbara Filmore kept.
The million-year-old woman was at her post at the front desk.
“Welcome.”
“Thank you. Is Barbara Filmore here?”
“The director?”
“That’s the one.”
“No she’s not.”
“Not the director?”
“Not here.”
She tapped the counter above her desk a few times to cement the point.
“Who fills in for her on when she’s gone?”
“She fills in for herself. She’s just not here now.”
I let the logic of that one just float on by.
“Barbara has a friend, a guy named Bob Sobol. You see him around much?”
“Oh sure. He comes and takes her to lunch. He’s sweet on her.”
“Does Bob hang around the place much, talk to everybody?”
She motioned me to come closer.
“Likes the cards,” she whispered. “Handles ’em real slick.”
“How ’bout you? You play with him?”
She got coy.
“I just might. Been to the casinos. Know my way around a poker game.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She waved that off, but liked it.
“How long’s Barbara been seeing Bob?”
“You’re a nosy newt.”
“Just curious. How long do you think?”
“I don’t know. A long time. Two or three years, maybe more.”
Time had lost continuity for her. Too much had gone by unexamined.
“Been here playing cards ever since.”
“Every once in a while, that’s right. Helps out with activities. Have I told you about the Oktoberfest? Lots of beer.”
“Maybe I’ll check it out.”
“Lots of beer.”
“You remember Regina Broadhurst?”
“Oh sure. She’s a great old gal.”
“You know she passed away.”
She looked confused for a moment.
“I suppose I did.”
“She ever play cards with Bob?”
She looked back toward the main room of the Center where they served food and held activities. Looking for the answer.
“Oh, sure. Everybody plays with Bob. He’s a kidder.”
“You like him, too.”
“Oh sure. Everybody loves a kidder. Of course, everybody’s so nice here. There’re always nice to me, all the people.”
“That makes you a great old gal yourself.”
She stared up at me for a moment, working her jaw side to side like a cow with her cud.
“Bullshit’ll work on almost anybody, mister.”
We parted happy.
I still had a little time left in the day and was too keyed up to go back to the cottage. I thought about heading directly to the Pequot, but I wanted to keep my head clear for Jackie later on. I thought of one more stop I could make.
The Village municipal offices on Main Street were set to close in ten minutes. I ran down the stairs and got to the double glass doors just as the Records Department battleaxe was about to shut down. Keys were poised before the lock. I tapped my wrist where a watch would have been if I wore one, then pointed at the hours painted on the glass door.
“I’m really sorry,” I said to her as she opened the door a crack, “I just need one little thing. Take you two seconds.”
She opened the door the rest of the way and trudged back to her post behind the counter.
“Computer’s logged off for the night,” she said to me, to kick things off.
“Here’s what I need,” I said as I dashed off the address on a slip of scratch paper and slid it across the counter. “This file. Specifically the purchase history. Before the ’57 rezoning.”
“That’s in the dated stacks.”
“That’s right, that’s why I’m here. Just bring me the whole file. I’ll dig out what I need.”
She probably wanted to put up more of a fight, but it was late, she was tired and I’m sure I had a determined look about me. She capitulated with token resistance.
“No time to make copies.”
“I just need to take a look.”
As she walked away she said, “At four-thirty the door’s locked.”
As it turned out it took her a lot longer than that to locate the file. When she got back to the counter her battering-ram hairdo had come a little loose and dust smudges were all over her dress. I was making a lot of friends today.
“Here.” She dropped the file in front of me. “I already put the purchase history on top. Pull out what you need, I can make copies tomorrow.”
She’d chosen a new tack. Grace in defeat.
I read the top pages while she dusted herself off. I wrote a few notes on the scratch paper that was out on the counter, but I didn’t need to. I’d remember the details. I was done in a few minutes. I shut the folder and slid it back across the counter.
“Thanks for taking the trouble. No need for copies.”
“I hope it was important,” she said, somewhat heartfelt.
“Life and death,” I said.
“Aren’t they all.”
After leaving the Records Department I drove out to Dune Road so I could watch the magic-hour light warm up the sand and blacken the sea. The air was already a lot cooler for this time of the evening and the leaves were falling in a steady cascade, littering the world with red, orange, yellow and brown.
I was at the stop sign at the bottom of Halsey Neck and was about to turn right on Dune when the trained bear drove by in his black BMW.
He was talking on a cell phone. I turned left instead to follow, but let him get well ahead of me before following in earnest. He was moving fast, but I could easily keep the shiny black mass in view. He was heading down Meadow Lane toward the south part of the Village. A pickup truck pulled out ahead of me and got between us. That provided some cover so I could snug up the gap.
I lit a cigarette and wondered how inconspicuous I could be in a ’67 Pontiac Grand Prix.
The bear drove parallel to the ocean until he entered the southernmost reaches of the estate district. The pickup had the good manners to follow the same route all the way to Gin Lane before pulling into a driveway. I slipped back until a vintage Mercedes convertible took the pickup’s place. We turned left and caravanned up South Main Street, and into the center of the Village.
I lost the Mercedes at Job’s Lane, but kept a bead on the BMW till it turned off Main Street into the big Village parking area behind the storefronts. I passed by the entrance and sped around to another one off Nugent Street.
