you’ve got friends in the police
department, why don’t you just ask one of them if anything’s going into the files?”
Mr. Telford stirred his sugar into his coffee, being careful not to let his spoon
crack against the sides of his mug. “I wanted you to see for yourself.”
“Why?” But I knew I was asking a question to which I probably did not want the answer.
“Because, Mr. Becket, you’re a decent guy and my last hope.”
He fixed me with his blue-gray eyes and let them linger, even when I looked away.
Perhaps he realized a commercial was on the television screen and there was nothing
else to capture my attention. I tried focusing on my food, which did not seem as appetizing
as it had a few minutes earlier. I decided I was, indeed, going to find a new place
for dinner. Maybe I would even start cooking at home. Get microwave meals, sit by
myself in front of the television, eat off a tray table.
“Mr. Telford, I’m just someone doing a job, that’s all. I’ve got no pull in the office,
no say. I sit in a little dungeon in the basement and I do what I’m told, okay? So
if you think I’m your best hope, you might as well forget it.”
“You talked Mitch White into letting you look at the file.”
“Honest to God, Mr. Telford, you’re so much more on top of things than I am, why don’t
you just use all these other resources you have, go about your business, and leave
me alone?”
Did I say that too loud? Is that why John looked up at me from down the bar?
But Mr. Telford was unperturbed. “My resources,” he said, “as you call ’em, are mostly
people like me, support people who lived here alltheir lives doing the jobs that allow other folks to come down and have a good time
for a few weeks every year. I want to get a plumber to my place seven o’clock in the
morning, I can do that. I want to plant a cactus in my yard, I got no doubt I can
get somebody to look the other way. But that only gets me so far. It doesn’t get me
into the files.”
“Both the district attorney and the chief of police know who you are. They know the
case isn’t solved and the file is still open.”
“Sure. They see me coming, they smile and say, ‘Hi, Bill,’ ‘Sure thing, Bill,’ ‘Get
right on it, Bill.’ Then they never do anything.” He sipped from his mug, put it back
on the bar. “Which you just proved.”
I tried to go back to watching the game, but he stayed where he was, his head hanging
slightly, holding on to the mug handle like a tired swimmer. I finished my drink,
pushed my plate forward, signaled to John that I was ready to go.
“I don’t know what’s been Goin’ on in your life, Mr. Becket,” he said suddenly. “But
I’m willing to bet something has.”
“Yeah, the Bruins are getting the crap kicked out of them, the Celtics lost last night,
and I’m glad baseball is under way so the Red Sox can prove that winning last year’s
championship was a total fluke.”
“Guy like you,” he said, “young, good-looking, talented, you clearly could be doing
something more than sitting in the basement of some backwater prosecutor’s office.”
I thanked him for his observation and he nodded as though my thanks were genuine.
John sidled over. “You done with that meal, Counselor? You want a doggy bag or anything?”
I shook my head and made a little check mark in the air. He cut his eyes to Mr. Telford,
indicating he knew exactly why I wasn’t eating, why I couldn’t enjoy my drink and
the game in solitude. Guy comes in, orders a coffee, ruins everything for everyone.
All that was expressed in one side glance.
Mr. Telford waited until John went back to the kitchen with my plate before he spoke
again. “You know, it’s funny. My Heidi wanted to do so much with her life and didn’t
get the chance, and here you are, you got the opportunity to do wonderful things,
and what do you do instead? Sit around watching other
department, why don’t you just ask one of them if anything’s going into the files?”
Mr. Telford stirred his sugar into his coffee, being careful not to let his spoon
crack against the sides of his mug. “I wanted you to see for yourself.”
“Why?” But I knew I was asking a question to which I probably did not want the answer.
“Because, Mr. Becket, you’re a decent guy and my last hope.”
He fixed me with his blue-gray eyes and let them linger, even when I looked away.
Perhaps he realized a commercial was on the television screen and there was nothing
else to capture my attention. I tried focusing on my food, which did not seem as appetizing
as it had a few minutes earlier. I decided I was, indeed, going to find a new place
for dinner. Maybe I would even start cooking at home. Get microwave meals, sit by
myself in front of the television, eat off a tray table.
“Mr. Telford, I’m just someone doing a job, that’s all. I’ve got no pull in the office,
no say. I sit in a little dungeon in the basement and I do what I’m told, okay? So
if you think I’m your best hope, you might as well forget it.”
“You talked Mitch White into letting you look at the file.”
“Honest to God, Mr. Telford, you’re so much more on top of things than I am, why don’t
you just use all these other resources you have, go about your business, and leave
me alone?”
Did I say that too loud? Is that why John looked up at me from down the bar?
But Mr. Telford was unperturbed. “My resources,” he said, “as you call ’em, are mostly
people like me, support people who lived here alltheir lives doing the jobs that allow other folks to come down and have a good time
for a few weeks every year. I want to get a plumber to my place seven o’clock in the
morning, I can do that. I want to plant a cactus in my yard, I got no doubt I can
get somebody to look the other way. But that only gets me so far. It doesn’t get me
into the files.”
“Both the district attorney and the chief of police know who you are. They know the
case isn’t solved and the file is still open.”
“Sure. They see me coming, they smile and say, ‘Hi, Bill,’ ‘Sure thing, Bill,’ ‘Get
right on it, Bill.’ Then they never do anything.” He sipped from his mug, put it back
on the bar. “Which you just proved.”
I tried to go back to watching the game, but he stayed where he was, his head hanging
slightly, holding on to the mug handle like a tired swimmer. I finished my drink,
pushed my plate forward, signaled to John that I was ready to go.
“I don’t know what’s been Goin’ on in your life, Mr. Becket,” he said suddenly. “But
I’m willing to bet something has.”
“Yeah, the Bruins are getting the crap kicked out of them, the Celtics lost last night,
and I’m glad baseball is under way so the Red Sox can prove that winning last year’s
championship was a total fluke.”
“Guy like you,” he said, “young, good-looking, talented, you clearly could be doing
something more than sitting in the basement of some backwater prosecutor’s office.”
I thanked him for his observation and he nodded as though my thanks were genuine.
John sidled over. “You done with that meal, Counselor? You want a doggy bag or anything?”
I shook my head and made a little check mark in the air. He cut his eyes to Mr. Telford,
indicating he knew exactly why I wasn’t eating, why I couldn’t enjoy my drink and
the game in solitude. Guy comes in, orders a coffee, ruins everything for everyone.
All that was expressed in one side glance.
Mr. Telford waited until John went back to the kitchen with my plate before he spoke
again. “You know, it’s funny. My Heidi wanted to do so much with her life and didn’t
get the chance, and here you are, you got the opportunity to do wonderful things,
and what do you do instead? Sit around watching other
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