“Yes?”
“If that job in buildings and grounds is still open, I wouldn’t be out in the weather.”
“I’m not sure it’s available,” Sam Glazer said.
“That’s too bad,” Mills said. “Oh, Mr. Glazer?”
“What?”
“That senior partner called. After I spoke to you last? But I’m doing just what you said.”
“Oh?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good.”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Look,” Sam Glazer said, “I want to be frank.”
“Sure,” George Mills said, “me too. Absolutely.”
“I’d be looking around for something else if I were you.”
“I’m hanging in there,” Mills said, hoarsely rushing the message into the mouthpiece. But at the other end the line had already gone dead.
He decided he would go in person. He wore his suit, the one he had worn to the funeral. He was going to take a hat he could hold in his hands but decided that would be too much. A receptionist passed his name in and in five minutes a young man Mills had never seen came out to greet him. The young man walked briskly over to where George was seated on the edge of a deep leather couch and stuck out his hand. Mills started to rise, but by pushing his handshake at him the young man managed to keep George off balance and shoved him further back into the couch.
“Good to meet you, sir,” the young man said. “What can I do for you?” George Mills realized that the kid meant for him to state his business there in the outer office. He hesitated and the young man’s smile became even wider. He’s going to sit down next to me, George Mills thought. That’s what happened. The young lawyer leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “They’ve painted my office,” he said. “It’s a relief to get away from those fumes for a minute.” Mills smelled cologne. The receptionist smiled.
“I asked to see your boss,” George Mills said. “My business is with your boss.”
“Hey, pal, give me a break,” the kid said. “Harvard ’80, editor of the Law Review, two summers clerking at the Supreme Court. Why do you want to make me feel so bad? Don’t you think I can handle it?” The receptionist was grinning.
“This isn’t a law thing,” George Mills said. “It’s about a car.”
The young man looked at the receptionist, who shook her head.
“This is the automobile department,” the kid said.
“Give him a message,” Mills said, speaking past the young man to the receptionist huskily. “Tell him the price of the Buick Special is negotiable.”
“I’ll let him know that, George,” the receptionist said.
“Tell him,” and now he was standing, “tell him I just heard about the terrible tragedy and …”
“The terrible tragedy, George?” the receptionist said.
“Grant’s death,” George Mills said.
The receptionist and the guy exchanged puzzled looks.
“Ask him to extend my condolences to the Claunches, and to tell Mr. Claunch Sr. that if there’s anything I can do …” But he couldn’t finish. He walked past the snotnose kid and the girl at the desk and out the suite into the hall.
It was a good building but not a new one. An operator was still required to drive the elevator. He wore a uniform like a doorman’s but much more subtle. He called George “sir” and greeted many of the passengers personally as they got on at their floors. About George’s age, his name was George too, and several passengers passed the time of day with him while they descended.
“How’s it going, George?” a tall gentleman said. “Your wife’s cold any better?”
“She’s fine, Mr. Brooks.”
“Get that yard work done this weekend?”
“No ma’am, Miss Livingston,” the elevator operator said. “My brother-in-law never brought my mower back.”
“How were those seats, George?”
“Considerably better than the Cardinals, Judge.”
The judge chuckled. “I think I can get two more for you for the Dallas game.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“George, if you see Mr. Reynolds would you hand him this for me? The mailman left it in our office by mistake.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Kafken.” They were at the lobby floor. “All you folks have a fine lunch now, hear?” the elevator operator said. “Anything wrong, sir?” he asked the sobbing George Mills.
“Allergies,” Mills said, and blew his grief and envy into his handkerchief.
He called Claunch directly. He didn’t beat around the bush. He asked if the lawyers had passed on his message.
“What message was that?”
Mills told him.
“Oh, that message.” The old man laughed.
He was just wondering, Mills said, if Mr. Claunch was pressed for good, loyal help at the compound till he could find a suitable replacement for Grant.
“Someone to play with the trains?”
“To take over his duties,” Mills said softly.
“Well,” he said, “my sister normally hires the staff.”
It was just that he’d gotten along so well with Mrs. Glazer, Mills said, had been so close to her that last month, had grown so fond of her and respected her so much. He said he felt he knew the family almost as well as he knew the daughter.
He tried to say the rest of it lightly as he could. He realized, he said, that it wasn’t usually the place of the employee to furnish the employer with “character references,” but his feelings about Mrs. Glazer were so strong that he’d be happy to testify to them.
“You mean swear an affidavit?”
“If that’s what’s required.”
“Uh huh,” Claunch said. “I already got seven hundred seventy thousand dollars in tax-deductible affidavits lying around the house signed by a psychiatrist. I don’t think I need another one. Everyone knows what Judy was. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mills?”
Look, George Mills, he knew no one owed him anything, that he’d been paid well for his services, but his back was acting up, he was getting on, feeling his age. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to horse furniture around. Would Claunch help him?
“You want me to move furniture?”
“I want you to get me a job as an elevator operator in one of your buildings.”
“Why?”
“I think it might be interesting work. You get to know all those people. They give you tickets to the games. You get to exchange the time of day with them. There’s probably pretty fair money in it. Tips, gifts at Christmas. I never thought about it before. It’s not the loftiest goal in the world, but I think it’s something I’d enjoy doing.”
Claunch considered for a moment. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. I don’t want to help you. Tell you what though,” he added amiably, “hold on to the job you got. Because if you lose it you won’t be collecting any unemployment insurance. Not in this state you won’t. You’re still a few years away from Social Security, am I right?”
“Yes,” George Mills said.
“That’s good,” Claunch said. “Because I’m making a note. I’m having you jerked off the Social Security rolls.”
“Can you do that?” George Mills asked. “Why?”
“Sure I can do it. As to why, I don’t know. You’re a guy gets a kick out of other men’s power. Maybe I’m doing you a favor by showing you mine. Now don’t bother me again. Stop calling my lawyers. There’s unsolved capital crimes. You bother me or my people I’ll see to it you get convicted of some of them. Nice to hear from you.”
Laglichio said he was just the man he wanted to see. He was starting a new service he said. Federal law required that trucks that hauled food be thoroughly scrubbed down before a new load could be placed in them.