'I need a copy of Dwayne Woodcock's transcript, academic record, whatever; any documentation on him that the University has.'
Ms. Merriman frowned.
'It's not policy to show material like that without the student's authorization.'
Ms. Merriman was very trim and well dressed. She was maybe forty-five with a tight body and short black very curly hair. She wore an engagement ring on the wrong hand and no wedding ring. Her dark blue tailored suit must have set her back about $600. She treated me like some sort of distinguished barbarian, like the king of a very important cannibal nation who still wore a bone in his nose.
'We'll find a way,' I said.
'You feel it's necessary?'
'I have no idea,' I said. 'Detective stuff doesn't really lend itself to 'policy' decisions. Detective stuff is pretty much weaseling around and finding out anything you can and then sitting down afterward and figuring out what's worth knowing.'
'I don't know. I don't feel right about it.'
'Why don't you consult with President Cort.'
Her eyes widened. 'Well, he's in an important meeting right now...'
'Something crucial?' I said. 'Like whether full professors should be required to show up at all?'
'Mr. Spenser, please.'
'Or whether a book that sells can be considered favorably in the course of a tenure decision.'
'Mr. Spenser. Running a large university like this one is a serious administrative challenge. President Cort's time is as important as any executive's.'
'I rest my case,' I said. 'But let's not argue. Let's compromise. Call up somebody and get me Dwayne's file.'
'President Cort did say you should have our full support.'
I nodded encouragement.
'All right, these are unusual circumstances. I'll call the registrar's office.'
'God,' I said, 'you're beautiful when you're decisive.'
'Oh, please,' she said. But she went to the phone and called. In about fifteen minutes an undergraduate- looking kid showed up with a manila envelope and handed it to Ms. Merriman. She opened it, saw that it was what she'd ordered, closed it again and handed it to me.
'I hope you'll return that straight here once you are through with it.'
'Right here,' I said. I gave her the complete smile. The one where my eyes crinkle at the corners and two deep dimples appear in my cheeks. Women often tore off their underwear and threw it at me when I gave them the complete smile.
Ms. Merriman didn't.
I left the office and found the library and settled into a yellow oak chair with arms, near a window in the reading room.
According to the transcript of his grades Dwayne was a B -, C + student. He was on full scholarship, had been before the Dean for two incidents of fighting and a charge of larceny. The charge, apparently brought by another student, was dropped. There were several evaluations of Dwayne from his academic counselor, a woman named Madelaine Roth, Ph.D. The evaluations all stressed Dwayne's native intelligence despite his impoverished background. According to the transcript Dwayne had grown up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, had a mother and four sisters, all on welfare. No father.
I settled back a little deeper in the chair and put my feet up on the window ledge and watched the students move across the campus. Most of them were noisy and oddly dressed and looked hung over. A few were carefully dressed, some of the girls wore eye shadow, many of the girls wore very tight jeans. I rolled my head a little on my neck to loosen my shoulders. The sun coming through the windows fell warmly on my back.
Dwayne had seemed too easy to talk to. He'd seemed too interested in who knew what. Or maybe I just thought so because I wanted to. Because it would be a place to start. Either way the transcript didn't tell me much. I swung my feet off the window sill and stood and brought the transcript back to Ms. Merriman.
7
LENNIE Seltzer still had the back booth in the Yorktown Tavern on Mass. Ave. He was normally there from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon, sipping beer, reading newspapers, taking bets, getting up to use the pay phone on the back wall next to the rest rooms. His hair was shiny slick and parted in the middle. His face was pale and smooth. His three-piece suit had a fine windowpane plaid in pale blue running through the gray sharkskin fabric. He was getting plumper as time passed and a lot of the plumpness settled as he sat each day sipping beer. On the table in front of him were the New York Daily News, the Globe and the Herald. To his right, on the table against the wall, a portable computer screen stared grayly at me.
Lennie was tipping his beer glass delicately toward his lips when I slid into the booth opposite him. He held the glass with his thumb and first two fingers. His ring finger and pinkie were extended. He drank only a little of the beer and set the glass back down.
'Spenser,' he said and made a gesture to the bartender.
'Lennie, you've moved into the age of tomorrow,' I said.
The bartender brought over a shot of whiskey and a draft beer in a tall thick glass. I hated a shot of whiskey, but every time I saw Lennie he ordered it for me. Over the years the shot had upgraded. Now it was Irish whiskey,
