According to Their Deeds (14 page)

“Do you need more sunlight, Morgan?”

“I get sunburn.”

“Do you even get enough air?”

“I’m still breathing, sir.”

“I suppose you are. First, here is an article about some drug arrests. Can you find out when it’s from?” He put the handwritten copy in Morgan’s long, thin fingers.

“Let’s see.” He entered a sentence from the article. “Looks like the
Washington Post
, March 20th, 2002.”

“Thank you! That was easy.”

“That one was.”

“Hey, boss.”

Charles turned. Angelo stood in the door, ragged and menacing.

“Yes?”

“You want us to go out now?”

“Yes, I’ll be a few minutes. You’ll need to look nice.”

“What is that for drugs and arrests you are doing?”

“It’s not me,” Charles said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, boss.”

Charles looked back to Morgan. “Here is another article.”

Morgan read the words. “I hope these aren’t anyone you know,” he said.

“No. It’s complicated. I’m trying to find out about a book.”

“Yes, sir. I know how that can go off in all different directions. Let’s see.” He typed, then typed again, then a few other times. “That one isn’t coming up.”

“It isn’t there?” Charles asked.

“I can’t find it. It might be too old, or from some newspaper that doesn’t have their back issues online, or they’re hidden.”

“Never mind, then. Next—this is the number and date of a court order from the Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas. Can you find anything about it?”

“That’s probably online. Let me see.”

There was more typing and clicking and passing of minutes, but finally Morgan nodded. “Right. It’s some grand jury thing about, um, prosecutorial misconduct. Eight prisoners were released. Their trials had been overturned because the prosecutor had, um, whatever . . . I think it means he’d suppressed evidence . . . overzealous . . . jury tampering . . . Wow.” His nose got closer and closer to the screen. “Hardcore ruthless. This guy would prosecute his own mother.” He looked up at Charles. “Sir.”

“That’s good enough,” Charles said. “Does it say who the prosecutor was?”

“No. Not here. But it does say no charges would be brought against him, apparently because of some technicality.”

“All right, then, one more. There is a man in the news recently, Patrick Henry White. He was a judge, but he had to resign when someone told the newspaper that he’d cheated on some tests back in law school. I wonder if you can tell me where and when he was in school.”

“Let’s see.” Morgan’s fingers spoke with the computer and soon it answered. “It was in a
Washington Post
article six months ago. University of Virginia, 1972 to 1976.”

“Thank you.” He sighed. “I think that’s all.” He took the papers back. “And where is Odysseus?”

“Still sailing.”

“Very well.”

Charles walked slowly back to his own office. He took a porcelain soap dish from the bathroom, set his handwritten notes on it, lit them with a match, and slid the ashes into the wastebasket.

“Alice?”

“Yes, Mr. Beale?”

“Here is a list of books I would like you to pull for me.”

“Did someone order them?”

“No, I’m just borrowing them. I’ll need them in a couple hours and I’ll have them back tomorrow.”

“Hey, boss.”

Charles regained his composure. “You must learn to make some sound when you come into a room, Angelo.”

“I said, ‘Hey, boss.’ Are you ready for us to go?”

“Yes you did, and yes I am, and you look quite presentable. And have we sold anything else, Alice?”

“A volume of George Bernard Shaw’s plays.”

“
Pygmalion
. Well, Professor Higgins is taking Miss Doolittle to the ball.”

“This is a jeweler,” Charles said. “Very fancy. I doubt we’ll find our lady here, so it will just be practice.”

“People here don’t talk to me,” Angelo said.

“You look completely respectable,” Charles said. “Come on.” He pushed open the door.

Angelo stopped on the threshold. Even he was overwhelmed, his eyes wide open until he regained his blank, narrow stare.

Four pedestals interrupted the expansive royal blueness of the carpet, magnificent dark wood stands smothered in glittering sparkling dazzling flashing spot-lit jewels. Around the three walls facing them ran a blinding necklace of other crystalline displays.

Charles gave him time.

A velvet voice floated toward them. “May I help you?” The source, a crystalline young woman, had come from a side office door.

“I hope so,” Charles said. “My name is Charles Beale, and I’m here with Mr. Acevedo.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beale and Mr. Acevedo.”

“Hey,” Angelo said, still slightly blinded.

“We were given your name by Capital Auction.”

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Mr. Acevedo is interested in acquiring some pieces that will be up for auction, but he would prefer to have someone more familiar with jewelry, and with bidding at auction, to represent him.”

Angelo stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes shifting side to side.

“I see.” The woman smiled. “You would want to speak with Mr. Needham.”

“Does he usually attend the auction himself, or does someone else?”

“That depends on the type of pieces, but he would work with you personally to begin with.”

“I see. Is he in?”

“I believe he is engaged at the moment.”

Charles smiled. “Perhaps we’ll stop in later.”

“Yes, sir. It would be good to call ahead of time.”

“We will. Thank you.”

“What do you think?” Charles asked.

“Hey, boss, that is the way you do it.”

“What would you do?”

“You got another place to try?”

“Let’s see . . . there is an office on the list that’s close.” He looked at the paper. “About three blocks.”

“I will do that one.”

“All right. Let’s try it.”

Three blocks was not far at Angelo’s pace. Charles was the one gasping as they reached the solid gray stone slab within sight of Union Station.

“This is an office, not a retail store,” he said. “You don’t just wander in.”

They rode an elevator to the third floor. When he wasn’t moving, Angelo was very still, but when the doors opened he was moving before Charles had a chance to speak.

The door said Gallwood Imports. “You stay here,” Angelo said.

He opened the door without knocking. Charles watched from the hall.

It was a small, crowded, untidy room with one occupied desk and two unoccupied. The occupant was a very thin man with dark hair and a beaklike nose.

“Yes?” he said.

Angelo waited.

“Yes? What do you want?” the man said.

“I am here for that package,” Angelo said.

“What package?”

“That lady, she said to come get that package.”

“What package? What are you talking about?”

“That lady said.” Angelo was bored and impatient.

“What lady?”

“That lady, she called and said come get that package.”

“Who?” the man said, confused but not yet annoyed.

“You got a lady who works here?”

“Ayala! There’s a guy out here to pick up a package.”

A woman looked in from a doorway, from under a pile of jet-black hair. “What?”

“Do you have something for this guy to pick up?”

“I don’t have anything,” she said.

Angelo stepped back to look at the name on the main door. “This is Gallwood, right?”

“Who called you? Where did you come from?” the man said.

“You got a package or you don’t?”

“We don’t have any package.”

Angelo shrugged and turned and left. He closed the door and started down the hall.

“Wait,” Charles said, and he stopped. “That was very good, Angelo.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Can you do the rest of the list?”

“I can do that list.”

They started walking again. In the elevator, Charles said, “Remember a few things. If someone starts getting mad, don’t get into a fight.”

“I won’t fight.”

“And don’t make anyone suspicious. In a store they might think you are trying to shoplift.”

“I know all that, boss.”

“I suppose you do.” The elevator door opened. “Angelo, do you know that I trust you?”

He shrugged. “You want I should go to the next place now?”

“No. We’ll go back to the shop. You should just do a couple a day. The important thing is for you to practice talking to people.”

“But you want that lady?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you will find her or not.”

“Okay, boss. I will talk to the people and I will look for that lady. What do you want I should do if I find her?”

“Don’t do anything. Just tell me.”

EVENING

“I have the books you wanted me to pull, Mr. Beale,” Alice said as he and Angelo walked into the shop.

“Very good. Thank you.” He looked into the box she had on the counter. “Have we sold anything while I was gone?”

“Yes, sir. A Mary Shelley
Frankenstein
.”

Angelo disappeared silently up the steps to his room.

“Not a good sign,” Charles said.

“You’re back!” Charles said.

“I am,” Dorothy said. “Alice said you were out with Angelo?”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you. I went to the auction house and asked for the list of agents who’ve registered with them. I am going to have Angelo go to each address and look for the blond woman who bought Derek’s desk.”

“Do you really want to know who she is?”

“No, the main purpose is for Angelo to get experience with professional situations.”

“Do you think he might find her?”

“Who knows what he is capable of. We did two today and he will strike out on his own next week.”

“Will he get along all right by himself?”

“As long as he doesn’t get himself arrested. It was interesting to watch him. How would we act if someone like him came into our shop?”

“We’d wonder why he was there,” Dorothy said. “We’d worry that he was going to steal something.”

“That’s how everyone looks at him. I wonder what it’s like to know that no one trusts you. Everyone he sees is hostile or afraid.”

“He gives them reason to be.”

“Are you ever afraid of him?”

“No, not anymore. You know how I was at the beginning. But I trust him now.”

“Why?”

“I know him.”

“I wonder if we do. But anyway—he’ll be busy with his list for a while. And, dear, for us, I’ve decided on a little outing.”

“A what?” Dorothy said, suspicious.

“I’ve been neglecting you, and you’ve been working so hard. We are going on an outing.”

“Where?”

“Far, but not far.” He smiled. “It is an outing of the imagination.”

“My imagination is more of the stay-at-home type.”

“I will lead,” he said. “Even imaginations need fresh air. Put on your jacket, dear.”

Dusk streets opened to them. They strolled slowly into swarms of shoppers and walkers, and bicycles whisked around them and cars crawled slower than they walked. Windows illuminated and lines squeezed into ice-cream shops and bakeries. Very plain people mingled with very odd ones, and street musicians played. Charles led downhill.

Soon the river stopped them. They stepped out onto the boardwalk plaza and found a well-lit bench with waves lapping beneath them and restaurant balconies above them.

“You’re wondering what is in the box,” Charles said. It was in his lap.

“I see that it’s books.”

“Yes. They are our outing.” He handed her a book with a black and white dust cover.

“
The Boys on the Bus
. Is it something political?”

“No. Here’s the next one. Steinbeck.”

“
Travels with Charlie
? A dog?”

“No, no, no. You don’t know anyone by that name?”

“Well, you of course. But I still don’t understand.”

“All right. The next book.”

“
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
.” She stared at the three books. “I’m sorry, dear …”

“Look at those three.”

“Boys, Bus, Travels, Charlie, Rebecca, Sunnybrook Farm—oh! Oh, Charles! It’s the day we went to the farm.”

“The most important day of my life,” he said. “Here.”

She took the next book. “
A Light in the Window
. But there wasn’t a light.”

“You were the light, dear.”

She smiled and proved his words true. Then she looked into the box. “What’s next?”

“Guizot.”

“
The Long Reign of Louis the Fourteenth
. I don’t remember anything French.”

“Well, the weather.”

“The rain? Oh, the rain.”

“The long rain.”

“All day.”

“What would have happened without the rain?” Charles asked.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“I don’t think you would have noticed the lonely, gangly bus driver. You would have been frolicking all over the farm and whatnot, feeding the cows whatever you feed them.”

“Nonsense. I noticed you the minute I got onto the bus.”

“You’ve said that before, but you didn’t show it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. I was only seventeen.”

“Anyway, it did rain, and the whole crowd of you were stuck in the barn for four hours, and I was stuck in the bus waiting. It was so nice of you to sit in the window for me to look at.”

“And it was so nice of you to look at me,” she said. “It didn’t seem a waste of time at all. Are there any other books in there?”

“A couple more.”

“
History of the English Language
. That would be our two college majors?”

“History and English. Notice the author.”

“George Townsend.”

“Do you get it? It’s where we went to college.”

“Oh, Georgetown. That’s very cute, Charles.”

“Serendipitous, and so was all of life back then.” He took the pile of books she already had and handed her a new one from the box.

“
Sense and Sensibility
. That is the two of us?”

“Yes, romance and marriage. You are sensible and I live by feel.”

“We are so different,” Dorothy said, “and so alike. But it’s our strength, isn’t it?”

“It is a great strength. Especially with this next book, from the Broadway script shelf.”