me as I came out of Lessing's office. The yellow computer screen reflecting in her glasses made it look as if she had TV sets for eyes.
"Find anything interesting?" she asked.
"Not much."
I pulled up a chair and sat across from her. She turned off her computer, and the TV sets in her glasses went out with a blink. In spite of the chained hornrims and the prison matron's hairdo, Millie wasn't nearly as old as she dressed. Early thirties, at best. I had the feeling that it flattered some officious bone in her body to look the part of a secretary, even if it was the secretary from a forties melodrama.
"You mind talking to me about Mr. Lessing?" I asked.
She smiled encouragingly. "Not a bit. I'd do anything to help Mr. L. or the missus."
"You like him, don't you?"
"I like him a lot," Millie said. "He's a sweet man and real well organized. I like Mr. T. too. But he can get cross when things go wrong. Mr. L. don't have a cross bone in his body. He's always so kind."
"Do you know if he was working on something special this past week?"
"Don't think so. Truth is he was only in the one time last week, on Friday. To sign the checks."
"So he spent the week away from the office?"
"I guess you could say that," Millie said. "But then he don't spend much time here, anyway. What with his commission meetings at the Court House, he only comes in three, four times a week normally."
"The commission takes up that much of his time?"
"Guess it must," Millie said. "It's been like that since I come to work here three years ago. Mr. T. handles the everyday stuff. Mr. L. comes in for meetings and to sign checks."
"Your boss didn't have a problem with drugs or alcohol, did he?"
Millie gave me a look. "Of course not. What makes you say such a thing?"
"I found two checks on his desk made out to a drug rehabilitation clinic."
Millie laughed. "You must mean the Lighthouse."
"That's the name all right. Why is that funny?"
"'Cause Mr. L. ain't no patient there. That's just a charity he contributes to. In fact, he had a lot to do with starting the place up -him and Mr. Geneva. I think Mr. L. paid for the lease right out of his own pocket."
"Your boss must be a generous man."
"He's got a soft spot for street kids." She scowled as if she didn't share the same weakness.
I got up from the chair. "This guy Geneva you mentioned, where could I find him?"
"At the Court House," Millie said. "He's on the commission too. Mr. Don Geneva."
I started for the door.
"You don't really think something has happened to Mr. L., do you?" Millie called out.
"I don't know, Millie. Probably not."
"I hope you're right," she said, looking concerned.
"There just ain't enough like him to go around. Most men are out for what they can get." She raised her ring finger and waved her wedding ring at me as evidence.
I caught a taxi on Madison and had the cabbie drive me through the boiling, smoggy heat to the Court House on Fifth Street. It was a three-story stone fortress with barred casements and balled turrets and a general air of ugly utility, like a Protestant orphanage. The information carrel inside the lobby was deserted. In fact, most of the first floor had emptied out for lunch. The only sounds came from the wall fans, buzzing on their consoles, and a few typewriters clicking away behind pebbled-glass doors.
I walked across the lobby to a staircase where a bluejacketed security guard sat dozing on a stool. A Turfway Racing Form lay at his feet, flapping gently in the breeze from the fans. I made enough noise as I approached to wake him up. He resettled his Sam Browne around his tubby gut and gave me a rancorous look, as if he'd caught me napping.
"Can you point me to the commissioners' offices?" I asked.
"Ain't no one there," the cop said. "Most folks eat lunch this time of day."
"Let's pretend I already ate."
"Upstairs. Second floor." He jerked his thumb at the staircase above his head as if he was showing me the gate.
There was a directory on
"Find anything interesting?" she asked.
"Not much."
I pulled up a chair and sat across from her. She turned off her computer, and the TV sets in her glasses went out with a blink. In spite of the chained hornrims and the prison matron's hairdo, Millie wasn't nearly as old as she dressed. Early thirties, at best. I had the feeling that it flattered some officious bone in her body to look the part of a secretary, even if it was the secretary from a forties melodrama.
"You mind talking to me about Mr. Lessing?" I asked.
She smiled encouragingly. "Not a bit. I'd do anything to help Mr. L. or the missus."
"You like him, don't you?"
"I like him a lot," Millie said. "He's a sweet man and real well organized. I like Mr. T. too. But he can get cross when things go wrong. Mr. L. don't have a cross bone in his body. He's always so kind."
"Do you know if he was working on something special this past week?"
"Don't think so. Truth is he was only in the one time last week, on Friday. To sign the checks."
"So he spent the week away from the office?"
"I guess you could say that," Millie said. "But then he don't spend much time here, anyway. What with his commission meetings at the Court House, he only comes in three, four times a week normally."
"The commission takes up that much of his time?"
"Guess it must," Millie said. "It's been like that since I come to work here three years ago. Mr. T. handles the everyday stuff. Mr. L. comes in for meetings and to sign checks."
"Your boss didn't have a problem with drugs or alcohol, did he?"
Millie gave me a look. "Of course not. What makes you say such a thing?"
"I found two checks on his desk made out to a drug rehabilitation clinic."
Millie laughed. "You must mean the Lighthouse."
"That's the name all right. Why is that funny?"
"'Cause Mr. L. ain't no patient there. That's just a charity he contributes to. In fact, he had a lot to do with starting the place up -him and Mr. Geneva. I think Mr. L. paid for the lease right out of his own pocket."
"Your boss must be a generous man."
"He's got a soft spot for street kids." She scowled as if she didn't share the same weakness.
I got up from the chair. "This guy Geneva you mentioned, where could I find him?"
"At the Court House," Millie said. "He's on the commission too. Mr. Don Geneva."
I started for the door.
"You don't really think something has happened to Mr. L., do you?" Millie called out.
"I don't know, Millie. Probably not."
"I hope you're right," she said, looking concerned.
"There just ain't enough like him to go around. Most men are out for what they can get." She raised her ring finger and waved her wedding ring at me as evidence.
I caught a taxi on Madison and had the cabbie drive me through the boiling, smoggy heat to the Court House on Fifth Street. It was a three-story stone fortress with barred casements and balled turrets and a general air of ugly utility, like a Protestant orphanage. The information carrel inside the lobby was deserted. In fact, most of the first floor had emptied out for lunch. The only sounds came from the wall fans, buzzing on their consoles, and a few typewriters clicking away behind pebbled-glass doors.
I walked across the lobby to a staircase where a bluejacketed security guard sat dozing on a stool. A Turfway Racing Form lay at his feet, flapping gently in the breeze from the fans. I made enough noise as I approached to wake him up. He resettled his Sam Browne around his tubby gut and gave me a rancorous look, as if he'd caught me napping.
"Can you point me to the commissioners' offices?" I asked.
"Ain't no one there," the cop said. "Most folks eat lunch this time of day."
"Let's pretend I already ate."
"Upstairs. Second floor." He jerked his thumb at the staircase above his head as if he was showing me the gate.
There was a directory on
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