“Same parole officer?”
“Yeah. We think that’s how they met — waiting around before their appointments to see this parole officer. We really rehabilitate them, don’t we?”
“Well, Pete, I’d better get some of this into a story, or I’ll be out of a job again. Thanks for calling. And thanks for letting me know about Frank.”
I hung up and got to work on the story. It felt good to be writing like this again. Something came alive in me, a part of myself I had not used in a long time. The uncertainty left me after about the fourth sentence. It was going to be a good story.
I finished, let John know, and he called it up on his screen. I watched his face as he read it. I don’t know why; as usual, he was like granite while reading a story. You never knew if he loved it or hated it.
He got to the end and looked up from the screen. “Nice to have you back, Irene. But why are you standing around kibitzing? You need another assignment?”
“Nice to be back, John — I’ve missed you so much.”
At O’Connor’s desk, I started looking through the computer files. His code wasn’t so hard to decipher on the computer — no drawings or shorthand. But he did use nicknames and even had a way of making a rat nose: =o=.
On one of the more recent entries, I found another reference to campaign fund-raising banquets:
RCC — DA + MYR =o=. LDY? $ VS $ BLP AM W/C.
Rubber-chicken circuit, district attorney and mayor. Rat nose. I wasn’t sure about the rest of it. Something about money and then a note that someone “will call.” I studied it for a while, but couldn’t make out any more. I went back a few pages, to an entry marked with arrows:
>>>MYR PD FR DA RCC $? CK W/AM @ BLP.
Mayor paid from DA’s fund-raiser money? Check with AM at BLP.
Who was AM at BLP? Someone who was going to call O’Connor about the BLP or about the district attorney and mayor’s races? Did AM know O’Connor had died? Or would I get another call at some point, like the one from MacPherson?
I leaned back in the chair and tried to stretch a little. Time to do some moving around or I’d be walking like Frankenstein by the end of the day.
O’Connor was pursuing the possibility of something dirty going on in the mayor’s and DA’s races. After lunch, I’d go down to City Hall, and then maybe over to the California Fair Political Practices Commission office in the City of Industry; campaign-funding reports were on file there.
I also wanted to go over to the hospital and visit all my friends and relatives — the walk would be good for me. I turned off the computer monitor and slowly stood up. I started to push the chair in and swore under my breath — my purse was on the floor. I bent over — a big mistake — and couldn’t make myself straighten up again. Blood started rushing to my head as I stared at my purse and the floor.
I made a grab for the shoulder strap of the purse, and managed to dump its entire contents all over the floor. My head was throbbing and I could tell my face was red. The swearing was getting out from under my breath now. I turned my head a few degrees to see if anyone was nearby. John Walters was. I looked back down in mortification.
IT WAS THEN that I noticed the two envelopes that had been O’Connor’s mail. The return address on one of them was “The Global Guru,” O’Connor’s nutty travel agent. Had O’Connor been planning to go somewhere?
20
I PICKED UP the envelopes just as John, still chuckling, came over to help. “It’s not funny, damn it,” I said, but proceeded to disprove that by laughing myself. I managed to creep back up into a standing position with his support.
He was good enough to gather up my pens, notebooks, hairbrush, wallet, and other assorted items that had spread across the floor.
“What?” he said with mock surprise. “Where the hell could that lipstick have gone to? And where did that mascara go?”
“I only wear makeup on Holy Days of Obligation and you know it.”
“Your religion must not have had a feast day since the Flood.”
“Since before the Flood.”
“You okay now?”
“Yes, thanks, John.”
He walked off, still snickering. I opened the letter from the Global Guru. The familiar letterhead proclaimed, “Peace, Love and Understanding Through Travel.” The Global Guru was Fred Barnes to those of us who knew him in high school. Poor old Fred just never got over the sixties. I could picture him in his bell-bottoms and beads, burning incense in the travel agency.
The strange part was that, for all the trappings, he was a real wheeler-dealer. He could find low fares going anywhere, anytime. He knew his stuff — so I guess he was a sort of a guru. He actually had a pretty-decent-sized client list. O’Connor said he liked going to Fred because Fred had flair. In that way, he was much like all the people O’Connor went to for services, a little oddball but highly capable.
The envelope contained a single round-trip ticket for a flight to Phoenix, Arizona, on Thursday — tomorrow morning. The letter explained that a rental car would be waiting there for O’Connor, and that if he changed his mind and decided to stay overnight, he should give Fred a call to arrange lodging.
A trip to a sunny border state, with an Hispanic population. And some high fluoride levels. I reached for the phone and dialed Fred.
“Global Guru, Shalom.”
“Specials on Israel this month, Fred?”
