I arrived at the coffee shop early and was able to score a window table, one that offered a view of Liberty Street Park and the Town Hall across the road.
I was on overload. The investigation into the death of Henry Carson was more complex than I had first imagined. There was a subtext I hadn’t yet identified.
The graffiti scourge continued unabated and, unless the penalties were heightened, it would seriously impact the pristine beauty of San Remo County.
I had been on automatic pilot for a spell, but the sudden surge of activity had ratcheted up the stakes. Which presented a genuine challenge. One that carried with it a plethora of anxiety and uncertainty. So much for life in a small town, I thought.
As I sipped my macchiato, I caught sight of Helena Madison loping up the street, graceful as ever, a larger-than-life vision of athleticism in motion.
I watched her enter the shop, collect her coffee, look around, spot me, then head for my table. She put her briefcase on the empty chair beside her and sat facing me.
“Okay,” she said. “Come on.”
“Come on what?”
“One on one.”
“What one on one?”
“You and me, Buddy. Like old times. Just us. One on one. I want to show you what’s what one time more.”
“What are you, nuts?”
“Possibly. Likely. But be that as it may, I still want one more.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to play because you know I’d whup your ass.”
“Possibly. Likely.”
“You’re just a big chicken, aren’t you?”
“Live with it.”
She took a swig of coffee. She appeared not a day older than she had when I first met her all those years ago. Her rich chocolate skin was agleam in the sunlight that streamed through the coffee shop window. Thick, wavy hair cascaded chaotically around her face. Her electric eyes were like lasers. Her aquiline nose and ripe red lips completed the portrait. “I have good news and bad. Which do you want first?”
“The bad.”
“They turned it down.”
“The Town Council?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Fear.”
“Of?”
“Re-election losses.”
“Typical.”
“Of?”
“Politicians. You can never trust one.”
She chewed on that for a while, concern that I might think less of her darkening her face.
“So, what’s the good news?”
“I exercised my prerogatives.”
“Is there any chance you might quit speaking in tongues, Helena?”
She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I didn’t graduate magna cum laude for nothing, you know. Once I got elected to this cockamamie job, I set about studying the rules and by-laws as though they were gospel. And I learned a great deal.” She took a sip of coffee and gazed idly at the various tables, momentarily curious as to their occupants and whether or not she knew any of them.
“Go on,” I urged.
“In nineteen eighty-seven, an incident occurred in the Town Council that nearly short-circuited the career of the then Council President, guy named Walter Button. This Button character wanted to raise money for some street improvements. Pot holes and stuff. Civic business. But it had become political. Three of the other four members of the Council played for the opposing team and had pledged to vote down Button’s proposal.”
“So?”
“So he carefully studied the rules and the by-laws and discovered the little-known fact that the accumulation of unclaimed vacation time for Council members could result in a possible double payment, should a Council member request such a payment, as opposed to actually vacationing.
“He further discovered a Town Council addendum that empowered the President to order any member with more than four weeks’ worth of accumulated vacation time to immediately take that vacation time. Which resulted in eliminating any possible double payment.
“When President Button learned that each of his three opponents had more than four weeks’ worth of unused vacation time, he placed them all on immediate leave and once they were out of the office, he held a vote and his proposition passed unanimously. Two votes to none.”
“What is it you’re saying here, Helena?”
“As was the case back in Button’s day, three members of the current Council have each accumulated more than four weeks’ vacation time.”
“Which three?”
“I knew you’d ask that question.”
“Which three?”
“I may not be ready to disclose that information just yet, Buddy.”
“Why?”
“One on one.”
“You mean you’re not going to finish this story until I agree to go one on one with you?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re an even bigger jerk than I am.”
“Taller, too.”
She sat silently for a while, her arms smugly folded across her chest.
“Okay. Okay,” I said at last.
“Where and when?”
“Your call.”
“Your word?”
“You have it.”
“Then congratulations.”
“What congratulations?”
“I took the vote this morning. Your proposal passed unanimously. Two zip.”
“You mean the fines and the jail time are now law?”
“They are.”
“For how long?”
“I’m fairly certain that when their vacation time is over and the three bozos return to work, they’ll try to vacate the vote. But I can hold that up for quite some time. My guess would be for at least a year.”
“So when I find these taggers, I can make their lives miserable.”
“Correct. With but a single caveat.”
“One on one.”
“Also correct.”
“This is very small-minded of you, Helena.”
She stared at me for several moments, then began to rub the side of her nose with her extended middle finger.