An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [49]
“I wanted to run some ideas by you about my project.”
He lays his briefcase on his desk. When he opens it, he blocks my view of his face. All I can see are his hands shuffling papers in and out of the case.
“Forget about the project. We need to talk about other things now. Once that policy is adopted, we’ll have to follow through on the recommendations. Digital Systems will have an important role to play there. You’ll enjoy working with Francis. He’s a sharp tack for sure. We didn’t promote him to Head of Special Collections for nothing. He’s been nominated by some librarian’s council somewhere, did you know that?”
“What do you mean about working with Francis?”
He stands while he stuffs papers into his case. “What did I do with that folder? There it is.” He throws something inside then eyes me over the top of his glasses. “Why don’t you see Margaret to set up a time for a long chat?” He fights with his briefcase to make it close.
I stand and rest my hands on his desk. “There are serious problems with how Special Collections operates. I heard what happened with William Myrick. There’s a connection with Francis there. I can find the connection if you give me some time.”
He leaves his chair then takes his jacket from the coat rack. “I’m out of town for a few weeks.”
I follow him out into Margaret’s office.
“Make an appointment for Dr. Brunet,” he says to her. “Nice seeing you, Carl. You look tired. Are you eating right? Margaret, why don’t you give him some of the banana bread you brought in yesterday? Holy! Look at the time. John will be ballistic.”
Margaret stands behind her desk with the receiver in one hand. With the other, she offers me a piece of stale banana bread like an edible apology.
CHAPTER THIRTY
caution: potholes ahead
WHEN THE COOK CALLS IN early September, I don’t remember who he is. “Your pal Kelly put you onto me,” he says. We agree to meet at the coffee shop in a bookstore near campus. When I arrive, he’s already there with a mini smorgasbord of cakes and pies regaled before him. Behind me, there’s a woman on a loveseat reading a book to a toddler. “I think I can, I think I can,” she says to the child. A group of women laugh and talk in the corner. They’re wearing t-shirts that say The Book Bags. At another table, two people hold newspapers in front of their faces.
“How are ya?” he says. He has a moustache of whipped cream. “I got some real nice stuff for you.”
I sit opposite him. “I hope you’re not referring to the cake.”
He points the fork towards me. “Wanna taste?”
I shake my head. “How about if we get right to business?”
“You calls the shots. You gotta pay for the bill here today though. That’s part of my expenses. I runs a tight business. Money first, pictures after. A hundred bucks.”
I sift through the twenty-dollar bills in my wallet. “I think I have that here.”
He leans forward over the remains of his feast of pies and cakes, glances side to side then whispers. “You carry five hundred bucks with you all the time?”
I close my wallet. “One hundred dollars per photo? You told me when I hired you, pay on delivery of the goods, but, to be honest, I forgot about you. I haven’t heard from you in months. I don’t know if I want the photos anymore. Things were different then–”
“If you don’t want to see no pictures of her with him, fine with me.” He lays a small white envelope on the table near some spilled cream.
“I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes,” I tell him. On my drive to the nearest bank machine, I pass a stampeding herd of joggers, a man pushing a shopping cart over-filled with recycling, and a Caution: potholes ahead sign. I arrive at the shopping mall, drive round and round until I find a place to park then head inside. I stand fourth in