“Fucker tried to take my bench.” Six spit on the ground.
“Thanks Six. I’ll be careful.”
The chauffeur gave me a puzzled look but didn’t say anything as I passed him by and entered the building. The ground floor was an empty lobby. A sign inscribed KittyLuv pointed to the open set of stairs leading to the second floor, where I faced a long hallway. The reception area was on the right side, the door was open. It was a large, cheery office, with a large vase of flowers by the door. The three desks in the room each sported large name tags; ‘Betty,’ ‘Sybil,’ ‘Rose.’ Only Sybil was there. She didn’t notice me at first, but I noticed her. She was quietly concentrating on the memo before her, her light dress was shifting about her thin figure as though a breeze was blowing through the room. It was hard to describe exactly what it was that made Sybil exotically beautiful. Her straight auburn hair touched her shoulders; a silver streak raced down one side. Long tempting eyelashes, light blue eye shadow, and glossy red lipstick accentuated her features and separated them from porcelain white skin. Each part of Sybil was beautiful, in and of itself, but they each went their separate ways.
“Good day, Sybil,” I began.
“Hello.” She looked at my lapel hoping to find a name tag.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but maybe you could help,” I said with a gentle plea.
“Well, isn’t he cute.” Sybil rose, her dress followed, and she reached out for the happy creature in my arms. I willingly handed Cat-Meow over. Sybil snuggled him against her breast, and he rewarded me by rubbing his whiskers against her neck, pushing the dress to the side. The voyeur inside me stood at attention. I’d never appreciated the power of cats before.
“What can I do for you?” Sybil asked, directing the question either to me or Cat-Meow.
“He’s not mine. I found him wandering about. I think he’s homeless, so I thought you people would know what to do with him.” That didn’t sound right, so I added, “How to help him.”
Just then a door at the back of the office opened and a gentleman stepped out. He wore a soft gray flannel suit, and, although it was the middle of August, a snug vest. A patterned blue tie was knotted in a perfect double Windsor, and a triangle of a folded handkerchief decorated his vest pocket. His lapel pin was a gold-framed American flag. I’d seen the pictures; it was Lawrence Lafonte. He had a gentle face with bushy gray eyebrows and a wide nose that was humbled by a thick mustache. He looked like your kind Uncle Larry, the uncle who didn’t molest you when you were seven.
“Is Samson ready with the car?” he asked Sybil.
“Yes, Mr. Lafonte,” she replied politely. “Are you off to the city?”
“Yes. Have to see our taxman. And what is this?” he said gently, looking at the cat, or maybe at Sybil’s cleavage.
“This gentleman here has a homeless cat. He’d like us to help.”
“Well, that’s not exactly our business,” Mr. Lafonte said. “But why not take him to Marcus. I think he could use something to do.” As Lafonte went back into his office, he called back, “And tell her the car’s ready.”
“Yes sir,” Sybil answered. “Come with me. Marcus is the new head of accounting, he’s just down the hall.” She handed Cat-Meow back to me.
I followed Sybil down the hall. I hadn’t realized how tall she was. She glided ahead of me, her dress floating about her. I followed obediently. I scratched Cat-Meow behind the ears. He purred happily. I could see into the offices on both sides of the hallway and was getting the impression that only pretty young women wanted to save kittens. This place was loaded with potential affair-bait. Marcus was the first guy I saw; he worked in an office with two women. ACCOUNTING was lettered on the door. One of his office mates was the infamous Vera Booby; the other was a solid girl with wide shoulders and short blond hair. I remembered the name Thalia Davidson. All three were concentrating on their computer screens, but Marcus had propped his balding head up on one hand so he could doze while appearing to study a spreadsheet. He wasn’t the prettiest guy I’d ever seen. His head was mostly free of any hair, except for a few tufts around the edge and the hair that stuck out of his ears. He was wearing a shiny blue suit made in China from chemical waste. The snoring didn’t lend credibility to his assumed studiousness. Sybil motioned for me to go in, then called to the back of the office, “Vera. Lover boy says the car is ready.”
Vera looked up, laughed, and said, “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Vera? Vera’s riding with Lafonte to the station? I have to follow this. Marcus hadn’t moved, so I placed Cat-Meow quietly on his desk. When I left, he was gently nuzzling Marcus’s arm, trying to wake him from his slumber. I hurried down the hall, waved to Sybil on the way out. Before she could respond, I was out the door. I walked by Samson waiting by the limo and crossed the street. Half-way up the hill into the Park, I figured I was out of his view, so I took off at a dead run. Number Six watched curiously as I raced by. I ran through the Park and down the driveway beside LeRoy’s to my car in the back. By the time I’d driven out of the lot and around the Park, I could see the limo pull away from the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Number Six get up from his bench and begin to shuffle away. That means Vera was in the limo with Lafonte, headed for the train station.
It took four blocks to find an opening to get around the limousine. Passing cars in the middle of town on Main Street is not usually a good idea, and it prompted a chorus of angry horn blasts. I ran the next red light and left the limo standing stationary at the intersection. I arrived at South Station before Lafonte and his date, or I should say, “Lover Boy” and Vera Booby.
7
The commuters, those who lived in town but chose to work in the city, or those who worked in the city and chose to live in our town, took the train every day from South Station. A few drove; they were the commuters who wanted to spend a few extra hours a day away from their families. The southbound morning trains to the city were crowded; the southbound evening trains full of empty seats. Lafonte would take one of these, the 6:10 to the city. I skidded to a stop in a space in the parking lot, jumped out, and ran for the station. Running for trains was normal—no one stared. I was in the waiting room leaning against a wall by the door when Lafonte’s limo turned the corner. It pulled up in front of the station exactly as the train whistle sounded its approach. Mr. Lafonte emerged, turned, and held the door. Two bare legs appeared, followed by a micro mini, two large breasts, and a blaze of red hair. Looks like Vera Booby to me. They came into the waiting room, a large sterile space, terrazzo floors and bare walls. The old wooden benches along the sides were left over from the time before the station was modernized and sterilized. The few passengers who had been waiting were folding their newspapers and moving toward the arriving train. Mr. Lafonte, red-faced and fuming, walked straight through to the platform. Vera headed for the ladies room. I walked out to the platform as the train rolled into the station. A handful of passengers left the train; the few waiting on the platform climbed aboard. Mr. Lafonte followed. Vera was not with him. I waited but Vera didn’t appear. The train jerked, pulled ahead, picked up speed, and rolled away, shrinking down the tracks, headed for the big city. I was sorry not to be aboard. New York; I hadn’t been there for a while and I was looking forward to the chance to live out a few old memories.
Running to the bathroom and missing the train is not a good way to consummate a clandestine tryst. I checked out front; I thought the limo was gone, but then I spotted it at the end of the parking lot. I’ll try the bar. The Coliseum Bar leaned against the north wall of the station. It used to be called Pete’s, but someone put fiberglass columns on either side of the door and renamed it the Coliseum Bar. One could enter directly from the station waiting room through a side door. I followed a middle-aged couple, and we had to squeeze by a wide-shouldered guy standing beside the door. The black shined shoes and the baseball cap seemed to say “undercover cop.” We were followed by a young man wearing a red plaid shirt, khakis, hiking boots, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. The guy was a walking advertisement for L.L. Bean. Vera was perched