I put the paper aside.
A pebble-toss of whos, whats, hows.
No whys.
I called my service for messages. Routine stuff except for a request to phone Assemblyman Samuel Massengil’s office, accompanied by two numbers- one local, one with a 916 area code. Sacramento. Curious, I phoned the L.A. number, got a recorded message expressing Assemblyman Massengil’s eagerness to be of service to his constituents, followed by a list of other offices and numbers where many “municipal and county services” could be obtained, thus avoiding contact with Assemblyman Massengil.
Finally, a beep. I left my name and number and went to bed with a head full of questions.
7
At eight-thirty the next morning I got a call from a woman with a laugh in her voice. She introduced herself as Beth Bramble, executive assistant to Assemblyman Samuel Massengil. “Thank you for returning our call, Doctor.”
“Executive assistant,” I said. “Bud Ahlward’s counterpart?”
Pause. “Not quite, Dr. Delaware.”
“You don’t have a black belt?”
Another pause, briefer. “I’ve never known a psychiatrist with a sense of humor.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Ah. Maybe that explains it.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Bramble?”
“Assemblyman Massengil would like to meet with you.”
“For what purpose?”
“I really don’t know, Doctor. He’s flying back up to Sacramento this afternoon for a vote, and would be pleased if you could join him this morning for coffee.”
“I assume this is about the Hale School.”
“That’s safe to assume,” she said. “What’s a good time for you?”
“I’m not sure there is one. My work with the children is confidential.”
“The Assemblyman is well aware of that.”
“The last thing I want is to get involved in politics, Ms. Bramble.”
“I assure you, Doctor, no one has any intention of corrupting you.”
“But you have no idea what this is about.”
“No, I’m sorry, I really don’t- just delivering the message. Would nine-thirty be too early?”
The invitation intrigued me, but it smelled bad; my instinct was to stay away. Given Massengil’s temper, it was a tricky situation. Reject him and he just might vent more of his spleen on the school. Then there was the matter of my curiosity…
I said, “Nine-thirty’s okay. Where?”
“Our district office is on San Vicente. In Brentwood.”
She gave me the address and thanked me for my cooperation. After she hung up, I realized the laugh had left her voice early in the conversation and never returned.
A blue plastic sign stamped with the state seal was visible just above the address numerals, half-obscured by the leaves of a scrawny hibiscus. The building was anything but imposing, nothing remotely governmental about it. Two stories of white stucco moderne, trimmed with sand-colored brick and sandwiched between a larger, glass-fronted medical structure and a mini-mall whose main attraction was a frozen yogurt parlor. Svelte people in sweats streamed in and out of the parlor, concerned more with body tone than better government.
Fronting the building was a tow-away zone. I turned the comer, hooked into an alley, and parked in a visitor’s slot. Pushing open an iron gate, I stepped into more fresh air- the basic garden office setup: half a dozen suites on each floor, each with its own entrance, arranged in a right angle around a jungle of banana plants, clump bamboo, and asparagus fern.
The district office occupied two suites on the ground floor of the building, its neighbors an insurance broker, a graphic artist, a travel agent, and a publisher of technical manuals. The door to the first suite instructed me to please use the door to the second. Before I had a chance to comply, it swung open and a woman stepped out into the garden area.
She was in her mid- to late thirties, with blue-black hair drawn back and tied in a tight bun, a full face, icy gray-green eyes, a fleshy mouth, and ten pounds of extra weight in all the right places. She wore a tailored black suit that flaunted the weight, a white silk blouse, and black string tie fastened by a huge smoky topaz. The suit skirt ended at her knees. Her spiked heels were long and sharp enough to render grave bodily harm.
“Dr. Delaware? I’m Beth Bramble.” Her smile was as bright and durable as a camera flash. “Won’t you come in. The Assemblyman’s free.”
I resisted the urge to ask if the Assemblyman was also easy and followed her inside. She swayed when she walked- more flaunting- and led me into a reception area. Soft, spineless music flowed from an unseen speaker. The furnishings were vintage highway motel- wood-grain and Mylar, ostentatiously frugal. The walls were lime-sherbet grasscloth hung with a few blurry nautical prints and Rockwell reproductions. But most of the vertical space was covered by photos, scores of them, framed in black: Massengil entertaining foreign dignitaries, presenting trophies, holding aloft official proclamations crowded with calligraphy, gripping chromium-plated groundbreaking shovels, doing the banquet circuit surrounded by alcohol-glazed, tuxedoed, rubber-chicken eaters. And mixing with the people: wheelchair-trapped oldsters, sooty-faced firefighters, children in Halloween costumes, athletic team mascots dressed as hyperthyroid animals.
She said, “He’s a beloved man. Twenty-eight years representing this district.”
It sounded like a warning.
We made a sharp left turn, came to a door marked PRIVATE. She rapped once, opened it, stepped back, and ushered me in. When the door closed she was gone.
The office was small and beige, borderline-shabby. Massengil sat behind a plain, scuffed walnut desk. A gray suit jacket was draped over a gray metal file cabinet. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and tie. The desk top was protected by a sheet of glass and bare except for two phones, a legal pad, and a bell jar of cellophane-wrapped hard candies. On the wall behind him were more photos and a diploma- a forty-year-old degree in engineering from a state college in the Central Valley.
Perpendicular to the desk was a hard brown sofa with wooden legs. A man sat on it, portly, white-bearded. Loose face, ruddy complexion. Santa Claus with indigestion. Just like on TV. Another vested suit, this one lead-heavy loden green, bunched up around the shoulders. Shiny gold watch chain and fob, which he toyed with. A fly-straining melon of belly protruded beneath the points of the vest. His shirt was yellow with a starched spread collar; his tie, a green paisley fastened in an enormous Windsor knot. He kept playing with the chain, avoiding my eyes.
Massengil stood. “Dr. Delaware, Sam Massengil. Appreciate your dropping by.” His voice was thin as charity soup, louder than it had to be.
We shook hands. His was large, hard with callus, and he squeezed my fingers a bit too tightly for the camaraderie he was trying to fake. A man prone to excess, though that didn’t apply to fashion. His shirt was wash-and-wear out of the sale bin, his tie a riot of powder-blue eagles soaring across a beige polyester sky. The short sleeves revealed arms too long even for his protracted body, scrawny but knotted with muscle and coiled with white hairs. Arms lathed by manual labor. A face sun-spotted and wrinkled as dried fruit. One side of the white toothbrush mustache was longer than the other, as if he’d shaved with his eyes closed. He looked every day of his age, but hard and fit. Rail-splitting? I couldn’t see him jogging with the yogurt crowd.
He sat back down, continued to look me over.
I said, “I didn’t realize there were going to be three of us, Assemblyman.”
“Yes, yes. This is a distinguished colleague of yours, Dr. Lance Dobbs. Dr. Dobbs, Dr. Delaware.”
“I’ve seen Dr. Dobbs on television.”
Dobbs gave a faint smile and nodded, made no effort to rise or shake hands.
I said, “What can I do for you, Assemblyman?”
Massengil and Dobbs exchanged glances. “Have a seat, won’t you?”