Fostering Death (5 page)

I glanced at Kelly. She was chewing her knuckle, her eyes dark.

“So what do we have to do?” I asked.

“Come on over to shipping.” John led the way down the hallway, past the pounding machinery. He didn’t say anything more until we got in the relative quiet in the cavernous open area that housed shipping and receiving. Kelly’s territory.

“See this here computer?” he said, waving his hand at a monitor, keyboard, and printer on a make-shift shelf outside the dispatcher’s office, below a hook with a clipboard stuffed with packing lists. “Up till now, when a truck pulled in to be loaded, Kelly would go to the clipboard and pull the paperwork that matched the shipment number. Check the packing list against the crates on skids waiting to be loaded. If the other shifts had done their jobs right, the shipments would be assembled and waiting. If they hadn’t gotten everything together, I’d tell you, Jesse, and you’d take the packing list and pull what was needed from the warehouse. Follow me so far?”

I nodded.

“But now, you type in the shipment number. Then the packing list prints out. Kelly, you take it and match it to the waiting loads. Once again, if the loads aren’t ready, you’ll tell me, and I’ll have Jesse get on it.”

I glanced over at Kelly. She was sucking on the knuckle now, looking concerned.

“Let me show you.” John punched in a series of numbers on the keyboard. “This is a test list. There isn’t a real shipment; it’s just a test one they put in there for us to practice on.”

The printer whirred to life. Several sheets of paper shot out from the top of it and launched themselves into the air. We watched as a breeze from an open loading bay door blew them across the floor, swirled them around, and deposited one on a lighting fixture above our heads.

John shook his head. “I guess you’ll have to hold onto them as they come out.”

“How come they’re so many pages?” I asked. “Only used to be one page. Just a list.”

“They got a lot more information on them,” John shouted back at us as he chased the remaining pages across the shipping room, stomping on two of them and watching helplessly as another floated through the open truck bay and into the yard.

He brought the pages he had back and frowned at them. “See?” he said. “These have all kinds of stuff on them—prices, inventory numbers. They look like they can be used as a bill of lading as well as a packing list. Let me get a new copy.”

Holding his hand ready to catch the paper as it came out of the printer, he punched in the number again. This time he grabbed each piece as it came out. Then he handed them to Kelly.

She shuffled the pages and frowned. “Where’s the information I need?” she asked.

“Somewhere in there.” John took the papers back and read the first one. “It can’t be that hard to find,” he said, continuing to scan them. “Ah. Here. On the third page.” He pointed and showed them to Kelly.

I peered over her shoulder. Instead of being a simple list of quantities and product numbers, the new paperwork had lots of stuff written on it. “Until we get used to this, it’s gonna take us a lot longer to figure out what we need to be doing,” I warned.

John sighed. “Probably. You’ll just have to do the best you can. And in a month or so, they’re saying they’ll put another computer and printer in the warehouse, and Jesse’ll have to put it in whenever he takes parts out or puts finished products away. It’s supposed to make it easier for the office to know what we’ve got on hand and what we might need to order.”

Easier for the office and more difficult for us peons to deal with. Forget us in the shop who actually do the work I thought, but I didn’t say anything. John gave us the printout and told us we could go.

We punched out and left the plant together.

“Six tenths of an hour overtime,” I said to Kelly, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Not a fortune, but something. Hope I get it, too.”

She shook my hand off. “I got to get going,” she mumbled.

I took a closer look at her. Were those tears forming in her eyes? “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just got to get to the lawyer’s office. And now I won’t have time to change my clothes or take a quick shower.” She hurried toward the parking lot.

Puzzled at her abrupt departure, I stood and watched her go. If the appointment had anything to do with custody problems with the kids, though, I guess she had a right to be distressed. I turned and walked toward my apartment.

I stopped at the Dollar Discount store on the way home. I picked up two cans of off-brand tuna fish, a bag of cat food and a bag of cat litter. I hesitated over a half-gallon of milk. Milk was a luxury I’d been resisting, but didn’t cats like milk? I thought I’d remembered hearing somewhere that milk wasn’t good for cats, but that didn’t seem right. In the end, I got it. I could always use it myself if the stupid cat didn’t. Since I was buying milk, I picked up a box of generic corn flakes, too.

That took care of most of my emergency twenty. I’d have to replace it tomorrow when I got paid.

The streets were cold and eerily quiet as I walked home. Dark clouds hung overhead, promising more sleet and snow. My jacket was still damp and the weak morning light held no warmth.

The janitor at my building had been busy. The sidewalks were clear and the stairs, both those up to the darkened Tabernacle door and down to my apartment, were covered with a fresh layer of salt and slushy puddles. The fallen sign still sat in the shelter of the entryway where I’d propped it last night. It didn’t look any the worse for wear.

As I stepped into my apartment, I could hear soft chanting coming from upstairs. I’d been afraid that the Brethren, as they called themselves, would be noisy overhead during the daytime, which is when I needed to sleep. But they were surprisingly quiet. The only sound that ever reached me was chanting, like now. If anything, it was soothing. And the increased occupancy of the building, presumably resulting in increased rent, had made a real difference in the janitor’s efforts at maintenance, including snow removal.

I stopped in the doorway and looked around my single room domain. It wasn’t exactly luxurious accommodations, but it sure beat a prison cell. And it was all mine—I didn’t have to share it with whatever cell buddy was arbitrarily assigned.

The odor of soiled newspaper cat litter reached my nose, but the cat wasn’t in sight. It’s not like there were that many places for even a cat to hide. I emptied the newspapers onto a garbage bag and closed it, refilling the box with real cat litter. Then I filled one of my bowls with cat food and the other one with milk, calling softly.

No response. I didn’t see how the cat could have gotten out.

The laundry basket I’d fixed up last night was shoved further under the bed. I reached down and pulled it out.

Sure enough, there was the cat, lying there and purring, looking up at me. With two tiny kittens snuggled up against it, nursing.

I guess it was a she.

She looked so contented and proud of her little family I couldn’t help but smile. I rubbed her head and then gently pushed the basket back under the bed.

The weather would be no excuse for missing my ten o’clock appointment with my parole officer. I fixed myself a cup of instant coffee, adding a little of the precious milk. I went to pour myself a bowl of cornflakes when I realized both my bowls were being used for the cat. I should have priced bowls at the store while I was there. Maybe I could get one or two more. After I got paid.

The cat didn’t seem interested in eating right now, so I retrieved the milk bowl from the floor and poured cereal into it.

I took a quick shower—I didn’t want to show up at the parole office smelling of machine oil and sweat. I checked on the cat family again, but they seemed to be doing fine, so I figured the best thing to do would be to leave them alone. I didn’t have any idea what I could do if they were having problems anyhow.

The parole office was in the basement of the county complex, underneath the police station and connected to the jail. Convenient. I set out into the worsening weather.

No one was in the basement waiting room of the parole office when I got there. The room was overheated, and I stripped off my jacket. Moisture condensed on the grimy windows high on the walls, distorting what little daylight tried to pierce the gloomy interior. A musty smell hung in the air.

A sign-in board sat on a ledge on the closed half-door that led back to the inner sanctum of the offices. I signed in, chose a cracked plastic chair with its back against the wall, wiped the seat with my jacket so it was dry enough to sit on, and plunked myself down. No telling how long it would be before someone showed up, but it didn’t make much difference. I’d have to wait. I closed my eyes and tried to rest.

A click of high heels on the wooden floor of the hallway behind the half-door told me a staff member had arrived to check the sign-in sheet. Without turning my head, I glanced over at the doorway. A shapely young woman, her impossibly blond hair piled high on her head, picked up the sheet and studied it. She looked around the empty room as if it were full of people and she was having trouble picking out who she wanted.

“Jesse Damon?” she finally asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” I got to my feet and grabbed my jacket.

“Mr. Ramirez called in. He’s stuck—a big tree down on his street.”

Did that mean I’d have to come back again? All I said was, “Yes, ma’am.”

“But…” She glanced down the hallway behind her. “You got your fee?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled my wallet out of my pocket.

“The secretary can take that. Come back to her office.” She unlatched the door and held it open for me.

Her musky perfume lingered as I stepped past her. I preceded her down the hallway. Safer for staff not to let a parolee walk behind them.

She directed me to a cramped office with a big desk. An empty cushioned chair was behind the desk, an empty folding chair in front of it.

“Sit down.” She indicated the rickety folding chair. Another security precaution. A seated parolee presented less of a safety risk than a standing one.

I sat.

Another woman hurried in, looking flushed and nervous. She was heavy set and sweat beaded her forehead under her carefully coiffed red hair. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as she eased herself into the chair behind the desk. That was so unusual, issuing an apology for keeping me waiting, that I had trouble coming up with an appropriate response.

She didn’t close the door behind her.

“No problem,” I finally said.

“You have your fee?” she asked. I pulled two twenty dollar bills out of my wallet and handed them over. When I’d first been released, I’d been on home detention, and the fee was double, to cover the cost of the monitoring. Paying only half of that was a relief and let me indulge in little extras, like savings. Or cat food and litter.

She held each bill up to the light, looking for the embedded strip that would assure her it wasn’t counterfeit. Then she turned to her computer and typed something in. The printer whirred to life.

“Your receipt,” she said, pulling a paper out of the printer and handing it to me.

“Thank you.” I sat, waiting for her to tell me what to do next.

She looked over my shoulder, out into hallway. Her brittle face relaxed, and she sat back in her chair.

“Someone wants to see you,” she said.

I turned to see two burly policemen, one with his hand on the butt of his service gun in the unsnapped holster, the other holding a pair of handcuffs.

Chapter 4

I S
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in the detention center, right next to the sign that read “No Weapons Beyond This Point.” I’d been relieved of my belt and boots. I hoped they kept track of the boots. They were steel-toed and expensive. I could never afford another pair.

Although if I got locked up, I wouldn’t be allowed steel-toed boots anyhow.

What about the cat and her kittens? I couldn’t leave them locked in an empty apartment until my rent ran out and the landlord came to check it out.

If they booked me, I’d tell them I needed to talk to a lieutenant, and hope I got a sympathetic one who would call the humane society. Not the best situation for the little family, but it would sure beat starving to death. And maybe whoever had lost their cat would find her.

Looking for a more comfortable position, I shifted on the hard bench. My hands were cuffed securely to a waist chain that wound through an eyebolt set in the wall over my head. Leg irons bit into my ankles. There was no point saying anything. Nobody cared about my comfort.

I avoided looking at anyone or anything. I had to fight to keep from jerking my feet back every time heavy boots came within inches of my gray woolen socks.

If I were in a holding cell, I’d be getting a lunch of some sort. Very unlikely out here.

Leaning my head against the cinderblock wall behind me, I closed my eyes and tried to rest. No way of knowing the next chance I might get to sleep.