“Right, right, ah Seymour ah……,” he waited for her to fill in the blank.
“Wood, Seymour Wood. He’s not working this morning, only works a couple of nights a week. Can I take a message for him?” she said, trying to be helpful.
“No, I’ll just drop by the library later and talk to him. When does he work next?”
“I don’t think he works again until tomorrow night, but I’d be happy to help you if you wanted to come in today, I’ll be here until 6:00 p.m. and my name is Miss Delaney.”
“Thanks for the offer, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone number for Seymour would you?” he pressed for that last bit of information he needed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have his permission to provide those specifics over the phone, but like I said he’ll be here tomorrow night.”
“Okay, well thanks anyway. Have a good day, bye.”
Lester pulled the phone book from underneath the payphone and looked through it until he came to the W’s, 132 listings for Wood. That would take all morning and he didn’t have enough change to make that many calls. He thought a moment before picking up his bag and heading to the administration building.
The line to the reception desk was short. As he waited, he could see a half dozen women tapping away on keyboards situated behind the main reception desk, each with a name placard displayed prominently on their desk. A large clock hung on the wall over a bank of windows that were open, allowing a slight breeze to drift through the office. The woodwork and building itself were turn of the century but the remainder of the office was state of the art, with computers, servers, and monitors galore.
He finally made his way to the front of the line where a young woman, most likely a college student, greeted him. “Good mornin’, what can I do for you'?” she said, with a delicate Southern drawl.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine, we were supposed to meet by the library this morning, but I’ve missed him. I was wondering if you could tell me what class he might be in right now,” he said persuasively, leaving his hat and sunglasses on.
“The name please?”
“Oh, right, Seymour Wood.”
“Thanks.” She went through a number of keystrokes, waited only momentarily before looking at her watch, then back to the screen. “Okay, let’s see here, looks to me like Mr. Wood should just about be finishing up his racquetball class over at the gym. If you hurry you might be able to catch him there.”
“Thanks so much. How would I get there from here?” he asked.
She handed him a map and used a well-manicured nail to trace out the path to the gymnasium.
Lester sprinted across the campus, dodging coed’s as he went. He couldn’t miss his opportunity this morning; the last thing he wanted was for that deputy to show up with a warrant. He had to make it happen this morning, without fail. The gym was a large, prominent structure in the northern part of the campus. It took him almost five minutes to get there, moving as quickly as he dared, without sending up too many alarms. He was glad to see that he was not the only one running, looked like being late was not uncommon.
Once at the gym he looked around but with no obvious signage he finally asked a student where the racquetball courts were. He had little trouble finding them once he was pointed in the right direction. The time on his watch showed just before 10:00 a.m., he knew his chances were slipping away with every tick of the clock. The courts were laid out, side-by-side, with glass enclosures and seating at the end for spectators. He could hear footsteps and the squeaking of gym shoes on wooden floors, racquetballs being slammed against walls, and the occasional grunt from tired participants. Lester walked along the back of each unit, peering inside to see if he could recognize Seymour, he appeared to be gone. As he contemplated his next option a glass door opened and two young women stepped out from the closest racquetball court.
“Hey, you don’t happen to know a Seymour Wood do you? He’s a friend of mine, thought I might catch up with him here.” He was sure he was playing the role successfully.
“For sure, he just finished up, probably in the locker room over there.” The plain one pointed.
Lester moved quickly to the locker area and scanned the rows of grey lockers, looking for his target. On the fourth aisle in, he finally saw him standing, talking with another student, his racquet dangling from his wrist, t-shirt pulled off, and draped over his shoulder. Sweat glistened from his upper body. Lester watched the young man take the shirt from his shoulder and wipe the sweat from his face. The assailant sat his backpack on a bench that extended along the front of each bank of lockers. A central walkway provided a gap of five feet, in between the lockers themselves, each extending from the floor to about the top of Seymour’s head. Other students moved between the lockers and showers before getting dressed.
Wanting to observe Seymour more closely he walked down the row of lockers until he stood directly behind the chatting friends. He opened a locker without a paddle lock and slid the backpack inside, took off his shoes, and laid them on the floor in front of the locker. He could hear the two behind him winding up their conversation and exchanging goodbyes, it had to be now. Lester reached for the outside of the backpack, looked down the row of lockers, in both directions, before he unzipped a pocket and reached inside, felt what he needed, pulled it from the pack and slowly turned around.
Seymour stood before him, only a few feet separating the two. Lester took the pencil and paper in his hands and waited while he looked over Seymour’s shoulder, noting the locker number, and writing it down. Again he checked to see that he was not being watched. Seymour reached for the lock that secured the locker, quickly dropped it, letting it clang against the metal locker door before wiping the sweat from his eyes again, with the stained shirt. He took the paddle lock in hand and spun the dial, right 16, left 9, right 27, the mechanism released the small bolt and access was granted. Lester immediately turned around, repeating the three numbers in his head, sat on the bench looking into his own locker, and wrote the combination down before slipping the paper into his pants pocket. Normally he would not have needed the written copy as a back up, but today there could be no mistakes. He desperately wanted to look over his shoulder to see what Wood’s was up to, but he dared not, instead he tried to make himself look busy by pulling the books from his backpack, and thumbing through one of them. Once Seymour was off to the showers, he stuffed the items back into the bag, put his shoes back on, and walked from the locker area, but he didn’t go far.
A couple of benches were conveniently located just outside the main doors of the gym, offering a perfect place for Lester to wait for Seymour to exit the building. Fifteen minutes passed before the lanky student emerged, books in hand, backpack over a shoulder, and in a hurry to get to his next class. Lester watched him move across the campus until he was sure he would not be coming back.
Now standing in front of locker number 1137, his bag on the floor next to him after removing and putting on his gloves, he spun the dial on the lock, 16-9-27, it opened. The cautious plotter again looked for any sign of trouble before opening the locker and checking out the contents. A white towel hung from one of three metal hooks on the sidewall. From the other two, hung his jockstrap, shorts and smelly t-shirt. Seymour’s wet socks lay in the bottom of the locker on top of a pair of Nike sport shoes. Toward the top, a small shelf separated the locker into two compartments, the top being quite small, but room enough for personal items and toiletries. A clean t-shirt, socks, and trunks were situated behind the deodorant on the shelf.
Lester reached into a secure pocket on the inside of his bag and felt for the.38 he’d put there earlier. The feel of the cold steel sent a thrill through him as he considered the results of his next move. Again, he looked side-to- side, content that no one was around; he removed the revolver from its hiding place and held it inside the locker. He wrapped the towel that hung there around the gun, being sure to wipe every surface, before he moved the gun to the top shelf, and carefully slid it under the clothing that was there. Confident that he had not overlooked anything, he closed the locker, replaced the lock, spun the dial to secure it, and left the building.
He chuckled to himself the entire distance walking back to the library. This was going better than he could have ever imagined. He did not believe in luck, but he could see his destiny with Blanche laid out before him. Lester returned to the same pay phone he had used earlier to speak to the librarian.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“I’m a student at the University, and I think I just saw another student with a gun.”
“Who am I speaking with and are you sure it was a gun, sir?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was a gun, but I’d rather not use my name.”
“Okay, but do you know the name of the student you saw, and can you describe the gun?”
“I thought I heard somebody call him Seymour, but I could be wrong. I don’t know much about guns, but it was a handgun, not the kind with a clip, I think they call it a revolver, was silver with a brown handle.”
