They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (7 page)

“I could just get the roster of the class Zak was in and find out if he and this Valencia Jones knew each other.”

“Please, Mr. Klein, get the roster. You have my best wishes. Then it will be the administration's headache, not mine.”

“Thanks.” I patted him a bit too hard on the back. “I hope you get Social Security before you get tenure, you chicken-shit son of a bitch. Have a nice day.”

I figured I'd have a go with Zak's hallmates before trying to tackle the administration. I was sure they'd be more forthcoming. I was wrong. Kitty Genovese got more help from her neighbors. At least two people on Zak's hall slammed their doors in my face before I got to the last syllable of Valencia Jones' name. The third wise-guy who tried that routine, the kid in the room next door to Zak's, wasn't quick enough on the draw. I thought he was going to soil his pants when I pushed my way in.

“I'll call campus security!” he squealed, groping around his bookbag to produce a can of pepper spray. “I'll use this. I will!”

“Take it easy,” I said, noticing his walls featured posters of Rush Limbaugh and Senator Joe McCarthy. “You got a thing for balding, fat, white men?”

The kid had no sense of humor and actually sprayed, but he was so nervous that the stream missed me. I slapped the can out of his hand before he got a second chance. I choked on some of the ambient mist and with my eyes beginning to tear, I just left. What good would it have done, anyway, I thought, to try and reason with an eighteen-year-old whose politics were just to the right of Vlad the Impaler. I washed my eyes out by a water fountain in the dorm lobby.

“Sir,” a man's voice called to me, “slowly put your hands behind your head, kneel to the ground, and lie down on your belly.”

“That little asshole!” I whispered out loud.

“Now!” the voice demanded.

“Yes, officer.” I didn't need second sight to know there was a 9mm or a .38 pointed my way. As soon as my cheek touched the cold tile floor, strong hands locked my wrists in handcuffs behind my back. Those hands stood me up and pushed me forward.

“You have the right to remain silent—” he began.

“Actually,” I corrected, “that's not true. I have the right not to incriminate myself. It's splitting hairs, but . . .”

He shoved me a little harder. MacClough had warned me never to get sarcastic with cops. It was guaranteed to piss them off. He was right, of course, but there are some times when it's hard to pass up a good straight line.

“You have the right to legal representation,” he droned on. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, the court will provide one at no expense. Do you understand these rights?”

“
Je ne parle pas Anglais
” I gave him Boyer with a faint hint of Chevalier.

Suddenly, I was eating dirty snow.

“Funny,” the cop said, “how handcuffs can make a man lose his balance.”

MacClough never said a word about speaking French. This too, it seemed, went unappreciated by law enforcement officials.

The holding cell at the Riversborough Station wasn't exactly the Tombs or Riker's Island, but it wasn't a suite at the Waldorf either. It was very Bauhaus, but I'm not sure what that school had to say about the delightful fragrance of old urine. I did not want for company there in the cage. Some guy in his twenties was sitting in the corner, waving his hand in front of his face as he stared at the light through splayed fingers. I figured he was autistic or tripping or both. I realized he was tripping out when he screamed: “Duck! Incoming red tracer, man.”

Playing along, I hit the floor. “Thanks, dude. Isotope?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

“Awesome stuff, brother. Awesome.”

Before I could ask a follow-up, he started with the hand waving again. I relaxed. I knew my cagemate would warn me about incoming red tracers.

“Okay,” a fat cop said, putting his key in the door, “which one of you is the French Legionnaire?”

“
C'est moi
!” I jumped to attention and saluted.

“You're out of here, Beau Geste.”

“But I didn't make my call,” I protested.

“You picked up English fast. Listen, wiseass, there's two guards from campus security waiting outside with a car to escort you to a meeting.”

“I don't have any meeting.”

“You do if you wanna get out of here.” He smiled. “Or maybe you'd like to stay and keep Captain Acid here company.”

I looked over at the corner and turned to my jailer. “Let's get to that meeting. I mustn't keep my fans waiting.”

The security guards were typical square-badgers, cop wannabes with chips on their shoulders. They pretty much ignored me, especially when I had the nerve to ask where we were going. When I mentioned Valencia Jones, however, they suggested that I relax and shut up or go back to jail. I went with the first option.

We parked by the school's power station and took a nice tour of the campus' network of underground tunnels. I was glad my escorts knew where they were headed, because I sure as hell didn't. Once we got into the maze, one tunnel looked like the next. I asked my chaperons why there weren't any signs to mark the way. I was told that stealing the signposts was a traditional part of hazing for all the frats and sororities. The signs went up during the last week of August. By the end of the first week of September, they were gone. I could tell my two square-badges just hated the type of students who would take those signs. They much preferred the assholes with pepper spray.

When we finally came up from the depths, we landed in a large reception area. Raised walnut panels covered the walls and portraits of unsmiling men covered the panels. There were several green leather settees arranged about the room. I was delivered to a silver-haired woman seated behind an ornate oaken desk stained to match the walls. She was a handsome woman on the wrong side of fifty-five. She had a pleasant smile, but something in the lines of her face told me she was not to be trifled with.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she dismissed my escorts. “We can handle Mr. Klein from here. Can't we, Mr. Klein?

“Absolutely.”

The security guards disappeared back into the tunnels.

“Have a seat, Mr. Klein. Dean Dallenbach will be with you shortly. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea while you wait?”

“Coffee, thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

A buzzer sounded on her desk. “You can go in, sir. The Dean is ready for you. I'll serve your coffee inside with Dean Dallenbach's tea.”

Dallenbach was younger than I'd expected, fifty maybe. He was suspiciously corporate looking right down to his wing tips. His blue Brooks Brothers three-piece was smartly tailored, no unseemly bulges along his long, svelte figure. He was Burt Lancaster without the perfect smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Klein,” he offered. There were no sharp edges in his voice. “You've been making quite a nuisance of yourself, haven't you: striking Prof. Zanter and accosting a student named . . . Robert Birch?”

“John Birch was more like it.”

“We don't screen for politics here, Mr. Klein.”

The secretary served our drinks with tea cakes and cucumber sandwiches cut into wedges, their crusts trimmed to perfection. I ate and drank while he gave me a lecture about proper decorum and campus policy. His tone was friendly enough and his flecked green eyes sparkled with pride as he went over a brief history of the school and the accomplishments of its alumni.

“I'm sold,” I said, finishing my last sandwich. “I'll come back and get my degree.”

He looked horrified.

“Only joking,” I winked.

He seemed relieved. “Back to the issue at hand. What have you to say about your earlier actions concerning Prof. Zanter and Mr. Birch?”

“Not much,” I confessed. “Maybe Prof. Zanter misinterpreted a strong pat on the back.”

“Possibly your calling him, and I quote: ‘A chicken-shit son of a bitch,' led him to misconstrue your meaning. Do you think?”

“I guess I can see that now,” I said.

“And as for your assault on Mr. Birch?”

“The little weasel pepper-sprayed me without provocation.”

“Pardon my skepticism, Mr. Klein, but breaking into a student's room is certainly provocation enough.”

“Is that what I did?”

He stood up from behind his desk. “See here, Mr. Klein, I can appreciate your situation. I know about your nephew. I too am gravely concerned for Zak's safety. I am only too willing to cooperate with you and or your brother in your efforts to discover your nephew's whereabouts. But I cannot allow you to turn this institution on its ear in the process. I will tolerate no further use of threat or strong-arm tactics aimed at the faculty, students, staff, or administration. Is that understood?”

“It is,” I answered humbly. “And I'm sorry for any trouble I might've caused.”

“We understand, Mr. Klein.”

“Could you tell me,” I wondered, “if my nephew and Valencia Jones were ever in the same class?”

For the first time since my arrival in his office, Dallenbach's face went cold. Then, as he fiddled with his computer keyboard, his expression went from cold to outright angry.

“No, sir, they never shared a class.” He swung his monitor around to show me.

“Thanks. Why is everyone around here so sensitive about Valencia Jones?”

“Riversborough College is neither Harvard nor Berkeley nor is it Brooklyn College,” he sniped at me. “We are privately funded and have a small but secure endowment. We cannot afford much scandal. Through vigilance and good fortune, we have been able to keep Riversborough out of the drug culture loop.”

“Until now.”

“Yes, Mr. Klein, until now. And we do not plan on having a repeat of this ugliness anytime soon. We guard Riversborough's reputation jealously. I make no apologies for that.”

“I can appreciate that,” I empathized, “but you must realize that if there's someone producing Isotope in town—”

“Stop there. I don't accept your premise. This was an isolated incident.”

“You better rethink your position on that. I was just in a holding cell with some kid tripping out of his mind.”

That gave Dean Dallenbach pause. I could see him trying to formulate a reasonable response, but, “I'll look into it,” was all he said on the subject.

“You should.”

“You may go now, Mr. Klein. I've seen to it that no charges will be leveled against you. I am afraid, however, that I must ask you to route any of your investigations through these offices. If, in the future, you wish to deal with any member of the faculty or student body, you must seek written permission to do so. And if any person denies you access, that answer will be considered final and binding. There will be no appeal. Is that understood?” It wasn't a question, really, so I just nodded. “Excellent. Good day to you, sir, and much success in locating your nephew. The next time me meet, I hope it will be under more favorable circumstances.”

I was being dismissed. Dallenbach had pretty much driven a stake into the heart of my investigation, but he did it with a smile. He'd warned me and he wanted it on record. I wasn't about to listen to him. Zak's life was more important than the school's prestige. But I would have to be a bit more restrained. From this point on, I knew someone would be watching.

You'll Be Wrong

The desk clerk grabbed me on the way up to my room at the Old Watermill and handed me a few sheets of fax paper. He reminded me that the inn was going to throw its weekly fish fry tonight. I thanked him, but told him I'd have to take a pass on the fried fish. Before parting company, I asked him to deliver two cups of coffee to the campus security officers parked across the street in the blue minivan. The clerk didn't bat an eye and wondered if I might not have a message to deliver with the coffee?

I said I did. “Tell them I know how bad surveillance duty sucks. Tell them if they should feel nature call, to just piss into the empty cups.”

It was a real Hollywood gesture, but having been there recently, I figured I was excused. The clerk loved it. I didn't imagine he got to do a whole lot of Hollywood material there in the land of fish fries. I slipped him a twenty for the coffee and future considerations. It was, after all, Jeffrey's money.

I tossed the fax on the bed and headed straight for the shower. The jail stink came off in layers. As I washed, I went over my little conference with Dean Dallenbach. He'd been relatively civil and more understanding than I had reason to expect, but, in spite of my brave front, I was a bit unnerved by my visit to city jail and the dean's office. I don't know, maybe it was the town getting to me. I was beginning to think Riversborough was the kind of place that was best experienced on a picture postcard. There were probably lots of nasty things buried beneath the snow.

Larry's cover letter read like this:

Klein—