you?”
Her mild confusion was part of my design, like a transient element of a modern art installation.
“You have a student there named Robert Mantle. He’s applying for a part-time position and he wrote on the application that he was in attendance at your college.”
“I’m familiar with that name. I’m pretty sure he’s one of ours.”
“That’s Robert Dallas Mantle who is studying political science and who lives on Slauson?”
“Let me see,” she said. I heard the opening of a metal drawer and then the rustling of paper. “Oh, yes. I know Bob. He hasn’t given a middle name and we don’t have a course in poli-sci. here at Metro. Bob is a bookkeeping major and he lives on … let me check … yes, he liveson Hoover with his mother. Someone in our department met with him four weeks ago. He wants to transfer to a four-year school where he can major in dramatic arts but he’s learning a trade first. What position are you hiring him for?”
“He applied for the production-line job but maybe I should put him on the financial side.”
“He’s a very good student,” the woman confided, “and a very neat dresser, wears a suit and tie to class every day. That’s why I thought I knew who you were talking about.”
“He does?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When he came in here he was wearing some kind of Afro-dashiki thing.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I seem to remember that Bob
is
very particular about the clothes he wears.”
“Define
particular
.”
“Nothing bad, Mr. Silver. He just dresses for whatever it is he’s about to do. It’s an aesthetic.”
“So if I change his job to bookkeeping he’ll put on a suit and tie?”
“Probably. Is there anything else? I have to get back to my work.”
The most important piece of information I got from Miss Hollings was that the police had not notified Metro College that their student was suspected of armed robbery, kidnapping, and murder. That was not standard procedure for the LAPD. Their penchant was to storm in with heavy boots and shotguns, knocking down doors and making threats.
What was it about Bob Mantle that had made them so circumspect?
I was considering that question when there came a tapping on my office door.
My inquiring mind dropped the police and their strange behavior and picked up on that soft knock. I hadn’t seen recognition in anyone’s face at Benoit’s. It was unlikely that someone there knew my name, profession,
and
office address; unlikely but not impossible.
In that instant my life became a blues song. There I was, sitting inmy own chair afraid to answer the door. That was another reason I kept my office in that neighborhood, because only the people down there understood the fear of everyday occurrences—like a simple knock.
This series of thoughts, contradictorily, lightened my mood. I smiled broadly, pulled the .22 from the gym bag, and called out, “It’s unlocked.”
The door came open framing a familiar countenance—EttaMae Harris, Mouse’s wife and one of the three true loves of my life. She was wearing a simple shift that was decorated by pale blue and deep burgundy swirls.
I dropped the pistol back into the bag and jumped to my feet. Etta and I embraced halfway between my desk and the door.
She was a big woman, lovely and dark. We kissed lips, then leaned back and smiled for each other. Her face was round and proud. I felt like I was something special when she gazed upon me.
Behind her was a small white woman in a dark red dress. This woman was younger than either Etta or I. She seemed to be laboring under a great weight.
“Easy, this here is Alana Atman. Alana, this is Easy.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi.”
We shook hands.
“Come on in.”
I stepped to the side, allowing the women to come in and situate themselves in the visitors’ chairs. I closed the door and locked it, then went around to my reclining office chair.
“Looks the same around here,” Etta said.
“No reason to change.
Her mild confusion was part of my design, like a transient element of a modern art installation.
“You have a student there named Robert Mantle. He’s applying for a part-time position and he wrote on the application that he was in attendance at your college.”
“I’m familiar with that name. I’m pretty sure he’s one of ours.”
“That’s Robert Dallas Mantle who is studying political science and who lives on Slauson?”
“Let me see,” she said. I heard the opening of a metal drawer and then the rustling of paper. “Oh, yes. I know Bob. He hasn’t given a middle name and we don’t have a course in poli-sci. here at Metro. Bob is a bookkeeping major and he lives on … let me check … yes, he liveson Hoover with his mother. Someone in our department met with him four weeks ago. He wants to transfer to a four-year school where he can major in dramatic arts but he’s learning a trade first. What position are you hiring him for?”
“He applied for the production-line job but maybe I should put him on the financial side.”
“He’s a very good student,” the woman confided, “and a very neat dresser, wears a suit and tie to class every day. That’s why I thought I knew who you were talking about.”
“He does?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When he came in here he was wearing some kind of Afro-dashiki thing.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I seem to remember that Bob
is
very particular about the clothes he wears.”
“Define
particular
.”
“Nothing bad, Mr. Silver. He just dresses for whatever it is he’s about to do. It’s an aesthetic.”
“So if I change his job to bookkeeping he’ll put on a suit and tie?”
“Probably. Is there anything else? I have to get back to my work.”
The most important piece of information I got from Miss Hollings was that the police had not notified Metro College that their student was suspected of armed robbery, kidnapping, and murder. That was not standard procedure for the LAPD. Their penchant was to storm in with heavy boots and shotguns, knocking down doors and making threats.
What was it about Bob Mantle that had made them so circumspect?
I was considering that question when there came a tapping on my office door.
My inquiring mind dropped the police and their strange behavior and picked up on that soft knock. I hadn’t seen recognition in anyone’s face at Benoit’s. It was unlikely that someone there knew my name, profession,
and
office address; unlikely but not impossible.
In that instant my life became a blues song. There I was, sitting inmy own chair afraid to answer the door. That was another reason I kept my office in that neighborhood, because only the people down there understood the fear of everyday occurrences—like a simple knock.
This series of thoughts, contradictorily, lightened my mood. I smiled broadly, pulled the .22 from the gym bag, and called out, “It’s unlocked.”
The door came open framing a familiar countenance—EttaMae Harris, Mouse’s wife and one of the three true loves of my life. She was wearing a simple shift that was decorated by pale blue and deep burgundy swirls.
I dropped the pistol back into the bag and jumped to my feet. Etta and I embraced halfway between my desk and the door.
She was a big woman, lovely and dark. We kissed lips, then leaned back and smiled for each other. Her face was round and proud. I felt like I was something special when she gazed upon me.
Behind her was a small white woman in a dark red dress. This woman was younger than either Etta or I. She seemed to be laboring under a great weight.
“Easy, this here is Alana Atman. Alana, this is Easy.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi.”
We shook hands.
“Come on in.”
I stepped to the side, allowing the women to come in and situate themselves in the visitors’ chairs. I closed the door and locked it, then went around to my reclining office chair.
“Looks the same around here,” Etta said.
“No reason to change.
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