charges eight cents a copy?"
I grinned, and she showed me the gracious smile as
she finished her count. "Is there anything I can do for you
while you're waiting for Andrew?"
I was about to risk another background question on
Dees, when the faint click sounded again. Filomena grabbed the
receiver immediately and pushed a button that made a buzzing noise.
"There's a gentleman here who'd like to . . . Good."
Hanging up, she said to me, "He'll be right with you."
The door behind her opened, and the man I'd seen
leaving unit 42 at Plymouth Willows came out. Up close, Andrew Dees
was about six feet tall on a medium build, the thick, curly hair
barely speckled with gray at the temples.
His prominent eyebrows almost knit over a perfect
nose, the strong chin jutting out nervously as he spoke.
"Who are you?"
I thought it was an odd reaction, given the little
that Filomena had told him about me. "My name's John Cuddy, Mr.
Dees." I offered him my ID holder. "I'd like to ask you
some questions about the Plymouth Willows condominium."
He didn't take the holder, hardly even looked at it.
"Why?"
"I represent another complex that's thinking of
changing management companies, and I'm talking with people about how
they like Hendrix as—"
"I don't have time for that."
The voice was strained, and from over by the cash
register Filomena shot Dees a concerned look.
I reached into the portfolio to get one of my forms.
"It would only take——"
"I said I don't have time."
His voice nearly cracked, and Filomena's lips parted
briefly, as though she'd never heard him speak to someone this way
before.
I withdrew my hand from the portfolio empty. "Maybe
if I came back—"
"The answer is no, Mr. Cuddy. I don't have time
for you or your questionnaire. Is that clear enough?"
Dees turned and stalked back into the inner office,
closing the door just this side of slamming it.
Filomena's eyes went from the door to me. "I'm
really . . . sorry. Something . . . something must have . . ."
“ That's okay, don't worry about it. Probably just
hit him at a bad moment."
She gave me a very weak version of the gracious
smile, and I left the shop. Carrying the portfolio back to the
Prelude, I wondered how Andrew Dees knew I had a questionnaire to
work from before he'd ever seen me bring it out.
=9=
I drove north, sailing along Route 3 until the merge
at 128, then getting mired in afternoon traffic on the Southeast
Expressway just before the Dorchester gas facility. In the early
seventies, an artist had painted one of the giant tanks with bold
slashes of red, blue, green, and other colors. She'd since died, and
a couple of years ago Boston gas tore the tank down, pleading
obsolescence. There was enough cultural outcry that the company let
another artist painstakingly recreate the pattern on a new tank,
which from the highway looks pretty good, especially compared to the
skeletons of grandiose office and residential towers that ran out of
development money before anything but the structural steel got
erected.
Back in the city, I double-parked by a one-hour photo
place long enough to drop off the film I'd shot at Plymouth Willows,
asking in advance for a dozen copies of the fourth frame on the roll,
which I figured to be the best one of Andrew Dees. Leaving the car in
the slanted space near the dumpster behind my office's building, I
went upstairs and dialed the district attorney's office. A secretary
said Ms. Meagher was "on trial." Probably the attempted
murder case she'd told me about the night before. I asked the
secretary to let Nancy know I'd called.
Then I tried Olga Evorova's number at the bank to
bring her up to date on how little I'd found out and to ask her how
far she wanted me to push an already upset Andrew Dees. I drew a very
formal secretary who advised me that Ms. Evorova was attending a
meeting out of the office. I left basically the same message with her
that I had at the DA's.
After organizing the questionnaires from
I grinned, and she showed me the gracious smile as
she finished her count. "Is there anything I can do for you
while you're waiting for Andrew?"
I was about to risk another background question on
Dees, when the faint click sounded again. Filomena grabbed the
receiver immediately and pushed a button that made a buzzing noise.
"There's a gentleman here who'd like to . . . Good."
Hanging up, she said to me, "He'll be right with you."
The door behind her opened, and the man I'd seen
leaving unit 42 at Plymouth Willows came out. Up close, Andrew Dees
was about six feet tall on a medium build, the thick, curly hair
barely speckled with gray at the temples.
His prominent eyebrows almost knit over a perfect
nose, the strong chin jutting out nervously as he spoke.
"Who are you?"
I thought it was an odd reaction, given the little
that Filomena had told him about me. "My name's John Cuddy, Mr.
Dees." I offered him my ID holder. "I'd like to ask you
some questions about the Plymouth Willows condominium."
He didn't take the holder, hardly even looked at it.
"Why?"
"I represent another complex that's thinking of
changing management companies, and I'm talking with people about how
they like Hendrix as—"
"I don't have time for that."
The voice was strained, and from over by the cash
register Filomena shot Dees a concerned look.
I reached into the portfolio to get one of my forms.
"It would only take——"
"I said I don't have time."
His voice nearly cracked, and Filomena's lips parted
briefly, as though she'd never heard him speak to someone this way
before.
I withdrew my hand from the portfolio empty. "Maybe
if I came back—"
"The answer is no, Mr. Cuddy. I don't have time
for you or your questionnaire. Is that clear enough?"
Dees turned and stalked back into the inner office,
closing the door just this side of slamming it.
Filomena's eyes went from the door to me. "I'm
really . . . sorry. Something . . . something must have . . ."
“ That's okay, don't worry about it. Probably just
hit him at a bad moment."
She gave me a very weak version of the gracious
smile, and I left the shop. Carrying the portfolio back to the
Prelude, I wondered how Andrew Dees knew I had a questionnaire to
work from before he'd ever seen me bring it out.
=9=
I drove north, sailing along Route 3 until the merge
at 128, then getting mired in afternoon traffic on the Southeast
Expressway just before the Dorchester gas facility. In the early
seventies, an artist had painted one of the giant tanks with bold
slashes of red, blue, green, and other colors. She'd since died, and
a couple of years ago Boston gas tore the tank down, pleading
obsolescence. There was enough cultural outcry that the company let
another artist painstakingly recreate the pattern on a new tank,
which from the highway looks pretty good, especially compared to the
skeletons of grandiose office and residential towers that ran out of
development money before anything but the structural steel got
erected.
Back in the city, I double-parked by a one-hour photo
place long enough to drop off the film I'd shot at Plymouth Willows,
asking in advance for a dozen copies of the fourth frame on the roll,
which I figured to be the best one of Andrew Dees. Leaving the car in
the slanted space near the dumpster behind my office's building, I
went upstairs and dialed the district attorney's office. A secretary
said Ms. Meagher was "on trial." Probably the attempted
murder case she'd told me about the night before. I asked the
secretary to let Nancy know I'd called.
Then I tried Olga Evorova's number at the bank to
bring her up to date on how little I'd found out and to ask her how
far she wanted me to push an already upset Andrew Dees. I drew a very
formal secretary who advised me that Ms. Evorova was attending a
meeting out of the office. I left basically the same message with her
that I had at the DA's.
After organizing the questionnaires from
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