Retired Special Agent Peter Johnson parked his ’76 Land Cruiser in the side lot and walked through the oily puddles, headed for the front entrance of the Hale Boggs Federal Building on Poydras Street. He was lugging his old briefcase, weighed down with Biblical research. The rain had stopped, but the sky was a uniform shade of battleship gray. It would probably be that way all week.
When he came around front, he stood on the sidewalk for the longest time looking up at the façade of the downtown building, working up his courage to go up the stairs. The two security guards inside were watching him, and some IT techs were coming down the steps, carrying PCs out of the building. Mas was flying off to Haiti to wrestle with God-knows-what, Johnson reminded himself. The least he could do on his end was sit his ass down in the Federal Library and see what he could find.
He drew a determined breath and forced himself to put one resolute foot in front of the other, and soon he was trotting up the steps just like Elliot Ness. Not like Kevin Costner, like Robert Stack. Stack was the Man. Growing up watching Robert Stack in The Untouchables on TV is what inspired Johnson to become a Fed. Desi Arnaz produced the show, and kept it on the air despite several threats from the mob. America had more to thank him for than I Love Lucy.
TV was black and white back then. Everything was black and white back then, Johnson thought, purposefully ascending the granite staircase. Nowadays, everything was shades of gray.
One hand gripped his briefcase and the other was jammed in his raincoat pocket. Robert Stack strode into the lobby, frowning like he always did, and stopped before a metal detector. Well, that’s new, Johnson thought. What would Robert Stack do?
The guards made it known with a glance that Johnson needed to stand still and remove his hand from his pocket. Slowly. Right, he reminded himself. It’s a whole new ball game.
He slowly removed his hand and showed them what he was carrying – his driver’s license and his old FBI badge. They recognized his name, and swapped glances.
He put his briefcase on the conveyor belt, and they put a bin on it for all his other stuff. He hadn’t flown since before 9/11, but he knew the drill; he’d seen it on TV, in living color.
He removed his belt and shoes and dropped them into the bin along with his keys and phone, and then he stepped through the metal detector. He didn’t trigger the alarm, and they let him through. But he didn’t feel any safer within their security perimeter. They couldn’t keep the Devil out.
The library was on the fourth floor. Banks of tall windows let in the afternoon gloom, and the view of the city was diffused through rain-beaded glass. The librarian smiled a pleasant hello from behind her new Mac as Johnson nervously approached her desk.
There were several agents and administrative staff sprinkled about the room at various tables, their heads buried in their work, but when a couple of agents looked up and recognized him, they began to whisper. Their reaction had a snowball effect, and soon the entire room was staring at him.
Johnson gulped and froze in place, painfully self-conscious, but the librarian kindly motioned for him to come forward. He complied and stood before her desk, holding his briefcase against his chest.
“Agent Mas called me, Mr. Johnson,” she told him. “Make yourself at home.” She waved an inviting hand at the long rows of reference volumes.
Johnson nodded, and scanned the room. “Oh, boy...” he breathed to himself. Here goes nothing.