said Kwan, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
The chair was the brother of the ones in which the kids outside the office sat waiting. Kwan sank back in a slightly more comfortable chair behind his desk. The office was tiny. The desktop was empty except for a neat file of manila folders, a full but not overflowing wooden in-box and an out-box with one sheet of paper in it. A pile of yellow penalty cards rested in the middle of the desk. Through the window to the outside, Kwan had a pretty good view of the white wall of the building next door.
“Adele Handford,” I said. “A student here. Pretty. Blond. Smart. Gets in trouble easily. I’ve heard her called Easy Adele. Her mother is looking for her.”
“You her … ?”
“I’m a family friend,” I said.
“We have almost two thousand students here, Mr … .”
“Fonesca, Lewis Fonesca.”
“I know you from somewhere,” he said, studying my face.
“Gwen’s Diner,” I said. “I eat there sometimes, early, like you.”
A look of recognition came into his eyes and he nodded with some satisfaction after having scratched the itch of recognition.
“I think I know the girl. Can’t tell you much about her,” he said. “Off the top, she’s a smart kid. She was sent to me two or three times because she talked back to a teacher and she was caught with a boy in the storage room behind the gym. I’m probably not authorized to tell you that much but I think the girl might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Kwan bit his lower lip and looked at the building next door. He made a decision, turned his head, pulled a pen out of his pants pocket and wrote something on the back of one of the yellow cards. I was getting a penalty. He handed the card to me. I looked at it:
“Sally Porovsky, Children’s Services of Sarasota.”
“You have an address for Adele?”
“I have an address, but it wouldn’t do you any good. I drove by it on the way home one night. It’s a golf shop. I stopped and asked for her father. Of course they had never heard of him.”
“But she’s living with her father somewhere?”
“She was. Somewhere.”
“And?”
“You have the name of someone who can give you answers. I talked to the father once. I had asked the girl to have him call me when she got her first disciplinary referral. He was calm. He was polite. He said he couldn’t come in because he had to work. He told me his daughter knew how to take care of herself.”
“That’s it?”
Kwan looked at the office window, leaned forward and said softly,
“Between you and me, there was something about the guy that scared the hell out of me.”
Children’s Services of Sarasota was in Building C of a three-story office building in a complex of red office buildings on Fruitville Road just off of Tuttle. Building A, according to the board, housed an accountant, a physical therapist, two psychologists, an accountant and a dermatologist. Building B was home to a dentist, a podiatrist, a gynecologist, a hair-removal office and a hypnotist.
Inside the small lobby was a receptionist stuffing envelopes.
He was probably about thirty, lean, clean, wearing glasses and a tieless blue shirt, obviously gay and not trying to hide it.
“Sally Porovsky,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Sally. I’m Mary Ellen,” he answered with a smile, continuing to stuff envelopes.
I looked down at him, saying nothing. He kept stuffing, stopped and looked up at me.
“It was just a joke,” he said.
“I got it.”
“You’re going to report me to Sorensen, aren’t you?” he said. “I can’t keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m not going to report you to Sorensen, Mary Ellen. I just want to see Sally Porovsky.”
“My name isn’t really … Oh, my name is John Detchon.”
“Mine is Lew Fonesca. Can you … ?”
“Oh, sure. Up the elevator. Second floor. Straight ahead. Her name’s on her cubicle. You’re lucky she’s in. They’re usually out on the road, house
The chair was the brother of the ones in which the kids outside the office sat waiting. Kwan sank back in a slightly more comfortable chair behind his desk. The office was tiny. The desktop was empty except for a neat file of manila folders, a full but not overflowing wooden in-box and an out-box with one sheet of paper in it. A pile of yellow penalty cards rested in the middle of the desk. Through the window to the outside, Kwan had a pretty good view of the white wall of the building next door.
“Adele Handford,” I said. “A student here. Pretty. Blond. Smart. Gets in trouble easily. I’ve heard her called Easy Adele. Her mother is looking for her.”
“You her … ?”
“I’m a family friend,” I said.
“We have almost two thousand students here, Mr … .”
“Fonesca, Lewis Fonesca.”
“I know you from somewhere,” he said, studying my face.
“Gwen’s Diner,” I said. “I eat there sometimes, early, like you.”
A look of recognition came into his eyes and he nodded with some satisfaction after having scratched the itch of recognition.
“I think I know the girl. Can’t tell you much about her,” he said. “Off the top, she’s a smart kid. She was sent to me two or three times because she talked back to a teacher and she was caught with a boy in the storage room behind the gym. I’m probably not authorized to tell you that much but I think the girl might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Kwan bit his lower lip and looked at the building next door. He made a decision, turned his head, pulled a pen out of his pants pocket and wrote something on the back of one of the yellow cards. I was getting a penalty. He handed the card to me. I looked at it:
“Sally Porovsky, Children’s Services of Sarasota.”
“You have an address for Adele?”
“I have an address, but it wouldn’t do you any good. I drove by it on the way home one night. It’s a golf shop. I stopped and asked for her father. Of course they had never heard of him.”
“But she’s living with her father somewhere?”
“She was. Somewhere.”
“And?”
“You have the name of someone who can give you answers. I talked to the father once. I had asked the girl to have him call me when she got her first disciplinary referral. He was calm. He was polite. He said he couldn’t come in because he had to work. He told me his daughter knew how to take care of herself.”
“That’s it?”
Kwan looked at the office window, leaned forward and said softly,
“Between you and me, there was something about the guy that scared the hell out of me.”
Children’s Services of Sarasota was in Building C of a three-story office building in a complex of red office buildings on Fruitville Road just off of Tuttle. Building A, according to the board, housed an accountant, a physical therapist, two psychologists, an accountant and a dermatologist. Building B was home to a dentist, a podiatrist, a gynecologist, a hair-removal office and a hypnotist.
Inside the small lobby was a receptionist stuffing envelopes.
He was probably about thirty, lean, clean, wearing glasses and a tieless blue shirt, obviously gay and not trying to hide it.
“Sally Porovsky,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Sally. I’m Mary Ellen,” he answered with a smile, continuing to stuff envelopes.
I looked down at him, saying nothing. He kept stuffing, stopped and looked up at me.
“It was just a joke,” he said.
“I got it.”
“You’re going to report me to Sorensen, aren’t you?” he said. “I can’t keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m not going to report you to Sorensen, Mary Ellen. I just want to see Sally Porovsky.”
“My name isn’t really … Oh, my name is John Detchon.”
“Mine is Lew Fonesca. Can you … ?”
“Oh, sure. Up the elevator. Second floor. Straight ahead. Her name’s on her cubicle. You’re lucky she’s in. They’re usually out on the road, house
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