Conduct in Question

Chapter 7

Harry found every possible traffic jam between Marjorie’s and Miss Giveny’s streets. Mercifully, his secretary remained encased in silence throughout the long ride. She lived on Mortimer Avenue, a broad and desolate thoroughfare cutting across the east end of the city. One dwarf maple per lot dotted the roadway, and each tiny bungalow had a huge carport attached, creating an unsettling, lopsided effect. Despite the early spring, not a soul walked along the dreary roadway. Perhaps the Florist had frightened people inside.

As he pulled into the driveway, his secretary sat in tense silence.

“Good night, Miss Giveny,” said Harry, opening the car door for her.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said stiffly. “Everyone’s worried sick about that dreadful Florist. I hope they catch him soon. People should be able to go about without worry.” Pursing her lips, she stared straight ahead in the gloom. Harry only nodded.

Suddenly, the front door of the house flew open. A woman, about Miss Giveny’s age, stepped out, wearing a pink nightie. Framed in the light of the doorway, Harry saw her sagging body. With the eagerness of a small child, the woman waved and called out,

“Hiya Gladdie! Where ya been?” Then she crouched down on the top step and giggled, clasping her hands around her knees. “Gladdie’s got a gentleman friend, I see.”

Miss Giveny almost stumbled in her haste to get out of the car. Turning back, she peered in the dark at Harry. “It’s my sister, Merle, Mr. Jenkins.” She spoke with somber dignity. “She’s my responsibility. She’s not right in the head.” She shut the car door and took Merle inside.

Heading home, Harry reflected on Miss Giveny’s world. Never once had she spoken of her burdens. Her truculence was much more understandable now.

Squinting in the lights of oncoming traffic, his mind wandered to the worlds of Marjorie’s relatives. Although his client had rarely spoken of her niece, Katharine Rowe, he thought she worked in architectural design.The nephew, Gerry, was a dentist. Only her concerns for Suzannah had been voiced. And Donnie sounded like plenty of trouble. But for Harry, raising kids was unknown territory.

Switching on the radio, he caught a tune from his early undergraduate years in the seventies. The face of Dean Faulkner, a friend from back then, floated in front of him. Only a few days ago, he had met him for a drink. Dean had done a better job of keeping his hair than Harry had.

Dark figures had crowded around the bar. Even with the noise, Dean’s bitterness had come through loud and clear.

“Orion’s been in the forefront of architectural planning for decades. But it’s running out of steam.” Dean stared into his glass, then looked up into Harry’s eyes. “I’m an ‘old-school’ planner accused of creating idyllic pastures for sheep.” He snorted. “Higgledy-piggledy neighborhoods are in fashion. Like untended gardens of weeds. Soon there’ll be no work for planners.”

“They’re firing you?”

“Hardly! They’re smarter than that. One woman, Katharine Rowe, along with two guys, Taylor and Metzler, have orchestrated my departure.”

“Are they offering a package?” asked Harry. Having represented a few disgruntled employees, he was well aware of the Machiavellian strategies of employers.

“A pittance!” Dean’s face was an ugly knot of fury. Harry’s concern mounted. Dean was on his third scotch.

“See…these two young guys, Taylor and Meltzer, have this project.” He sneered. “It’s supposed to revitalize the firm. St. Timothy’s Church on Highland Avenue wants to sell to a shopping-mall developer, but they have to get it zoned commercial before closing. These guys are a couple of interior decorators, with all their artsy-fartsy stuff.” Dean waved his hand in the air, then poked his finger at Harry. “But underneath, they’re still a couple of fucking cutthroats,” he muttered.