W is for Wasted

Pete paid for copies of the documents he thought relevant and put them into a file folder. When he returned to his car, he put the folder into one of the boxes he was taking home. First chance he had, he’d consolidate all the paperwork, organizing the files for easy access. Pete spent way too much time hunting down documents he should have had at his fingertips.

•   •   •

First thing Monday morning, Pete called the UCST Health Sciences Building. He’d picked up the number from Willard, who was blissfully ignorant of what was going on behind the scenes. Dr. Linton Reed wasn’t important enough to have a secretary of his own. The gal Pete talked to was the gatekeeper for the whole medical facility and took her job much too seriously. She mentioned her name in a clipped fashion when she picked up his call, but Pete missed it. After that, she did everything possible to thwart and obstruct his desire for a meeting. First she claimed Dr. Reed was in his clinic office only two days a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. When Pete pressed for an appointment the next day, she wanted to know the nature of his business, suggesting it might be something she could help him with, thus saving the oh-so-important Dr. Linton Reed the bother of having to deal with the likes of him.

“This is strictly personal,” Pete said.

“Personal” was a word that apparently had no place in this woman’s vocabulary.

She said, “I understand you may feel that way, but the fact remains that Dr. Reed is tied up this week. The next possible appointment is on Thursday, the twenty-eighth.”

“Let me tell you something, Miss . . . What was your name again?”

“Greta Sobel.”

“What you should be aware of, Miss Sobel, is that my proposal to Dr. Reed is not only personal, it’s date sensitive. He’s not going to appreciate your making my life difficult. All I need is twenty minutes of his time, so you can either work me in tomorrow or he’s going to know how uncooperative you’ve been.”

“There’s no reason to take that tone.”

“Apparently there is, given your attitude.”

“If you’ll give me your name and number, I’ll check with Dr. Reed and get back to you.”

“How about you figure it out right now or I’ll come over there myself and tell him what’s going on.”

Silence. “Just one moment.”

She put him on hold. He suspected she was giving herself a little breathing room to get her temper under control. She clicked back in. “One o’clock.”

He said, “Thank you,” but she’d hung up on him by then.

•   •   •

Tuesday morning, he cruised by his office, circling the block once. He spotted his landlady’s car parked in the adjacent lot and continued on his way. He drove down to the beach, following Cabana Boulevard as far as the bird refuge. He had ways to make good use of his time. Before he got out of the car, he adjusted his scarf to keep the chill off his neck. He opened his trunk and unlocked the briefcase where he kept his Glock, which he slid into the pocket of his sport coat. He extracted his gun-cleaning kit from behind the boxes of books and old files that he was gradually moving from his office to his garage at home. In the event his landlady served an eviction notice, he’d be able to clear the premises in short order.

He carried the kit and yesterday’s newspaper to a picnic table, where he spread the first section across the crude wood surface. He set out a tin of CLP, his cleaning rags, Q-tips, a barrel brush, a cleaning rod, and an old toothbrush and then removed the Smith & Wesson Escort from his shoulder holster and Glock 17 from his coat pocket.

He worked on the Escort first, pulling the slide back to assure himself the chamber was empty. He popped out the magazine, sighted down the barrel, aimed, and dry-fired at one of the ducks, which took no interest in him whatever. He fieldstripped the gun, removing the recoil spring and the barrel from the frame. He wiped down the parts, eliminating any excess lubrication, then took a dry brush and cleaned all the surfaces. He’d done it so many times, he probably could have done it by feel. His mind wandered first to Dr. Reed; then to Willard; and then to his own wife, Ruthie, the love of his life. For their fortieth anniversary, coming up the following year, he wanted to surprise her with a river cruise, which was why he’d picked up the brochure from the travel agent. This was something she’d always wanted to do. He liked the idea himself, gliding down a river in Germany. He imagined the quiet, the sumpy smell of inland waterways, excursions to nearby points of interest. He pictured villages, stretches of empty countryside, the occasional larger town where they might venture out to see the sights. His hope was to do it in style—maybe not first class, which they couldn’t afford, but not on the cheap by a long shot.