15
Dixie Cruise lived in a two-room apartment in a slightly run-down twelve-flat apartment building on Ringling Boulevard a block from the main post office.
I had called the office of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz, but not about their client Nancy Root, not exactly. I wanted to reach Harvey, who had a windowless office in the rear of the law firm next to the washroom. Harvey was the firm’s open secret, a computer hacker who, except for a slight problem, could easily be making as much money as Donald Trump was paying whoever was still standing at the end of a season of The Apprentice.
Harvey was an alcoholic. He would stop for weeks, months, and then disappear. The firm tolerated his crashes from the wagon, encouraged him to seek help through AA or a therapist, but Harvey resisted.
I knew someone would be at the law office even though it was Saturday morning. In fact, Saturday mornings were busy with clients who had full-time jobs during the week.
Oliver’s administrative assistant-who back in the days long past would have been called a secretary-said Harvey was not in, was not expected, could not be reached at home, might never come back or might show up Monday morning.
I went to my second choice, Dixie Cruise. She was home.
Dixie worked at a coffee bar on Main Street. She was slim, trim, with very black hair in a short style. She was no more than twenty-five, pretty face and wore big round glasses.
Dixie had the down-home Florida accent of any Bobby Joe or Billy Bob. Dixie was also a computer whiz second only to Harvey. She had the added advantage of always being sober.
Harvey’s services were free, part of my retainer agreement with the law firm. I had to pay Dixie but her rates were low, very low, fifty dollars an hour, minimum of one hour.
When I knocked at her door, Dixie opened it, a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand. She looked at me, Ames and Darrell. I introduced them.
“I’m finishing my brunch,” she said. “Come in.”
We went into her tiny, neat living room/dining room/bedroom then into a slightly smaller room devoted to two computers with supporting gray metal boxes, stacks and speakers.
“Got to pick up my mom and dad at the Tampa airport at noon,” she said, sitting in front of a computer and pushing a button. The computer hummed.
“This shouldn’t take long,” I said.
She adjusted her glasses, took a bite of her grilled cheese sandwich, placed the sandwich on a paper plate next to the computer and began letting her fingers dance above the keyboard without touching the keys.
“Name?” she asked.
Darrell and Ames stood watching.
“John Wellington Welles,” I said.
“You’re kidding me, right?” she said, turning to look at me.
“No.”
“John Wellington Welles is a character in a Gilbert and Sullivan show, The Sorcerer. My mom was in it when I was a kid. She took me to every darn rehearsal for a month.”
“It’s his name,” I said.
“I’m gonna get me a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan hits. Can you narrow it down some?”
“He’s a philosophy professor at MCC,” I said.
“Got it,” Dixie said and started her journey on the Internet highway after inserting a CD in a slit in the computer.
The CD began to play. A woman began belting out a song.
“The Pointers,” said Darrell.
Dixie paused to look at the boy with a smile.
“My mom plays this stuff all the time,” said Darrell.
“Your mom has good taste,” Dixie said, turning back to the screen.
Dixie’s fingers moved in time to “Fire.” The images on the screen kept flashing by as she clicked, pointed, clicked, scrolled. One screen showed a man who might be a much younger version of Welles. I didn’t have time to read any of the words near it or on the other pages.
“Bank, bank, bank,” Dixie sang in place of the words on the CD. “Can’t hide from the Heart of Dixie.”
We watched. Dixie took snatches of the grilled cheese sandwich. Three, four, seven, ten minutes. “Fire” became “Automatic.”
Finally, she pushed a button, sat back with her hands behind her head and waited while one of three printers on the table to the right of the computer began to make noises.
“Laser life,” she said.
“Most cool,” said Darrell.
“You know the Net?” she asked.
“Know what it is,” said Darrell.
“Want to come over sometime, I’ll teach you stuff,” she said.
The printer hummed.
Darrell looked at me.
“Ask your mother,” I said.
Dixie reached over and handed me three sheets that had spewed out of the printer.
“Want bank records, debt report, medical history?”
“Maybe,” I said, reading the sheets she had handed me.
As I finished each one, I handed it to Ames to read.
I learned that John Wellington Welles was fifty-two years old, born in Canton, Ohio, to Clark Welles and Joyce Welles, both deceased, both high school teachers, he of math, she of English. John Wellington Welles, who had no siblings, had a BS degree in sociology from Syracuse, an MA in linguistics from Cornell and a PhD in philosophy from Columbia. He had taught at Northeastern University in Boston for fourteen years, left a tenured full professorship to move to Sarasota to work at MCC, lower pay, lower prestige and no tenure.
He had a long list of publications, including a book called Introduction to Ethics, articles in journals, though the latest one had been published six years earlier. Six years earlier, Welles’s wife had died, cancer. They had one daughter who was now nineteen.
I had his current address, in Bradenton, the make of his car, a Taurus, and even how many payments he had left on it, six. He was paying $234 a month. His house was fully paid for and evaluated at $149,000, which did not put him in the high range of homeowners. Two arrests, both within the last six years, both for assault, neither of which had led to a conviction.
“Assault,” Ames said.
“Can you find out about these assault arrests?” I asked Dixie.
She nodded, took her hands from behind her head and began the search. Darrell moved close, looking over her shoulder, mouth slightly open. The rapidly changing light and colors did a light show across his face.
It took about five minutes.
“Both arrests in Boston,” she said. “I’m not printing this stuff out and I’m getting it off my hard drive as soon as I’m done.”
“Why?” asked Darrell.
“Because,” Dixie whispered, “it is not legal.”
Darrell grinned at both Ames and me. I leaned over to read about Welles’s arrests. No alcohol involved. No weapons involved. One incident happened in a department store a day before Christmas. Welles attacked a man named Walter Syckle, broke his nose. Syckle dropped charges. No reason given for the assault. The second arrest was similar. Welles punched a twenty-year-old man in line at a supermarket. Released. Charges dropped. No reason given for the assault.
“Has a temper,” said Ames.
“Looks that way,” I said.
