was in the sixties when I went to a storefront in Stoneham Square. It was the offices of Civil Streets, the final name on the list I'd culled from the Globe, and it was closed. There was a discreet sign in the window that said Civil Streets in black letters on a white background. One of those sorry-we're-closed signs hung in the front door window. The little clock face said they'd be back at 1:15. I looked at my watch. Three fifteen. I looked in through the front window. The place had the impermanent look of a campaign headquarters. A gray metal desk with a phone on it, a matching file cabinet, a couple of folding chairs. I tried the doorknob, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The door was locked. Nothing gained anyway. Maybe they meant 1:15 in the morning. There was a hardware store across the street. I went in and asked the clerk when Civil Streets was usually open.
"It ain't," he said.
"It's not usually open?"
"Nope. Maybe couple hours a week. Some broad comes in, types a little, talks on the phone."
"That's it?"
"That's it," he said.
"What kind of operation is it?" I said.
"I got no idea," the clerk said. "How come you're asking all these questions?"
"I got sick of watching Jerry Springer," I said.
The clerk looked a little puzzled, but he seemed to be a guy who might always be a little puzzled.
"Well, I gotta get to work," he said.
"Sure."
I went back out of the hardware store, walked across the street, and stood and looked at the Civil Streets office. Maybe I should kick in the door and rummage about. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I glanced around. A Stoneham Police car drove up Main Street and pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. A cop got out and walked into the store. In a few minutes he came out and stood by his car and gave me a cop look across the street. Cops on a two-man force in East Tuckabum, Iowa, will give you the same you-looking-for-trouble look that prowlies do in the South Bronx. Probably some sort of electro-magnetic force generated by the conjunction of gun and badge. I looked back. He kept looking. Nothing ventured, nobody arrested. I turned and walked back to my car and headed back up Main Street toward Route 128.
The trip wasn't a total waste. I was able to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts near the Redstone Shopping Center and had two plain donuts and a large coffee. Failing to learn anything is hungry work.
chapter sixteen
RACHEL WALLACE WAS in town. She was teaching a semester at Taft and was giving a lecture this evening at the Ford Hall Forum on Sexual Freedom and Public Policy. I told her if I could skip the lecture I'd buy her dinner. She said the lecture would almost certainly be too hard for me to understand and she'd settle for the meal. So there I was in Julien at the Hotel Meridian where Rachel was staying, sitting in a big chair ordering French food. Rachel Wallace was a pretty good-looking feminist. She had thick black hair, now dusted with a little gray, which she wore shorter than she used to. She had a trim body, and good clothes, and her makeup showed thought and dexterity.
"You still look good," she said when we had ordered our first drink. "If I were heterosexual…" She smiled and let it hang.
"Our loss," I said.
The waiter brought her the first of what I knew would be a number of martinis. I had never seen her drunk.
"Are you working on something at the moment?" she said.
"I could probably support myself without working," I said, "but I have joint custody of a dog."
"Of course," she said.
As she always did she checked out the room. And as she usually did she knew somebody.
"Norma," she said to a slender, good-looking woman who was following the maitre d' to her table. The woman turned, gave a small shriek, and came over to our table. Her husband came with her.
"We haven't seen you since Florida," she said.
Rachel Wallace introduced me. I stood.
"Norma Stilson," she said, "and Roger Sanders."
We shook hands.
"We're coming to see you tomorrow
"It ain't," he said.
"It's not usually open?"
"Nope. Maybe couple hours a week. Some broad comes in, types a little, talks on the phone."
"That's it?"
"That's it," he said.
"What kind of operation is it?" I said.
"I got no idea," the clerk said. "How come you're asking all these questions?"
"I got sick of watching Jerry Springer," I said.
The clerk looked a little puzzled, but he seemed to be a guy who might always be a little puzzled.
"Well, I gotta get to work," he said.
"Sure."
I went back out of the hardware store, walked across the street, and stood and looked at the Civil Streets office. Maybe I should kick in the door and rummage about. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I glanced around. A Stoneham Police car drove up Main Street and pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. A cop got out and walked into the store. In a few minutes he came out and stood by his car and gave me a cop look across the street. Cops on a two-man force in East Tuckabum, Iowa, will give you the same you-looking-for-trouble look that prowlies do in the South Bronx. Probably some sort of electro-magnetic force generated by the conjunction of gun and badge. I looked back. He kept looking. Nothing ventured, nobody arrested. I turned and walked back to my car and headed back up Main Street toward Route 128.
The trip wasn't a total waste. I was able to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts near the Redstone Shopping Center and had two plain donuts and a large coffee. Failing to learn anything is hungry work.
chapter sixteen
RACHEL WALLACE WAS in town. She was teaching a semester at Taft and was giving a lecture this evening at the Ford Hall Forum on Sexual Freedom and Public Policy. I told her if I could skip the lecture I'd buy her dinner. She said the lecture would almost certainly be too hard for me to understand and she'd settle for the meal. So there I was in Julien at the Hotel Meridian where Rachel was staying, sitting in a big chair ordering French food. Rachel Wallace was a pretty good-looking feminist. She had thick black hair, now dusted with a little gray, which she wore shorter than she used to. She had a trim body, and good clothes, and her makeup showed thought and dexterity.
"You still look good," she said when we had ordered our first drink. "If I were heterosexual…" She smiled and let it hang.
"Our loss," I said.
The waiter brought her the first of what I knew would be a number of martinis. I had never seen her drunk.
"Are you working on something at the moment?" she said.
"I could probably support myself without working," I said, "but I have joint custody of a dog."
"Of course," she said.
As she always did she checked out the room. And as she usually did she knew somebody.
"Norma," she said to a slender, good-looking woman who was following the maitre d' to her table. The woman turned, gave a small shriek, and came over to our table. Her husband came with her.
"We haven't seen you since Florida," she said.
Rachel Wallace introduced me. I stood.
"Norma Stilson," she said, "and Roger Sanders."
We shook hands.
"We're coming to see you tomorrow
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