Read Online They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee by Reed Farrel Coleman - Free Book Online

“We can handle Mr. Klein from here. Can’t we, Mr. Klein?
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    The security guards disappeared back into the tunnels.
    â€œHave a seat, Mr. Klein. Dean Dallenbach will be with you shortly. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea while you wait?”
    â€œCoffee, thanks. Milk, no sugar.”
    A buzzer sounded on her desk. “You can go in, sir. The Dean is ready for you. I’ll serve your coffee inside with Dean Dallenbach’s tea.”
    Dallenbach was younger than I’d expected, fifty maybe. He was suspiciously corporate looking right down to his wing tips. His blue Brooks Brothers three-piece was smartly tailored, no unseemly bulges along his long, svelte figure. He was Burt Lancaster without the perfect smile.
    â€œHave a seat, Mr. Klein,” he offered. There were no sharp edges in his voice. “You’ve been making quite a nuisance of yourself, haven’t you: striking Prof. Zanter and accosting a student named . . . Robert Birch?”
    â€œJohn Birch was more like it.”
    â€œWe don’t screen for politics here, Mr. Klein.”
    The secretary served our drinks with tea cakes and cucumber sandwiches cut into wedges, their crusts trimmed to perfection. I ate and drank while he gave me a lecture about proper decorum and campus policy. His tone was friendly enough and his flecked green eyes sparkled with pride as he went over a brief history of the school and the accomplishments of its alumni.
    â€œI’m sold,” I said, finishing my last sandwich. “I’ll come back and get my degree.”
    He looked horrified.
    â€œOnly joking,” I winked.
    He seemed relieved. “Back to the issue at hand. What have you to say about your earlier actions concerning Prof. Zanter and Mr. Birch?”
    â€œNot much,” I confessed. “Maybe Prof. Zanter misinterpreted a strong pat on the back.”
    â€œPossibly your calling him, and I quote: ‘A chicken-shit son of a bitch,’ led him to misconstrue your meaning. Do you think?”
    â€œI guess I can see that now,” I said.
    â€œAnd as for your assault on Mr. Birch?”
    â€œThe little weasel pepper-sprayed me without provocation.”
    â€œPardon my skepticism, Mr. Klein, but breaking into a student’s room is certainly provocation enough.”
    â€œIs that what I did?”
    He stood up from behind his desk. “See here, Mr. Klein, I can appreciate your situation. I know about your nephew. I too am gravely concerned for Zak’s safety. I am only too willing to cooperate with you and or your brother in your efforts to discover your nephew’s whereabouts. But I cannot allow you to turn this institution on its ear in the process. I will tolerate no further use of threat or strong-arm tactics aimed at the faculty, students, staff, or administration. Is that understood?”
    â€œIt is,” I answered humbly. “And I’m sorry for any trouble I might’ve caused.”
    â€œWe understand, Mr. Klein.”
    â€œCould you tell me,” I wondered, “if my nephew and Valencia Jones were ever in the same class?”
    For the first time since my arrival in his office, Dallenbach’s face went cold. Then, as he fiddled with his computer keyboard, his expression went from cold to outright angry.
    â€œNo, sir, they never shared a class.” He swung his monitor around to show me.
    â€œThanks. Why is everyone around here so sensitive about Valencia Jones?”
    â€œRiversborough College is neither Harvard nor Berkeley nor is it Brooklyn College,” he sniped at me. “We are privately funded and have a small but secure endowment. We cannot afford much scandal. Through vigilance and good fortune, we have been able to keep Riversborough out of the drug culture loop.”
    â€œUntil now.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Klein, until now. And we do not plan on having a repeat of this ugliness anytime soon. We guard