Lark (22 page)

“Appreciate that,” Lark said as he turned down Macklin Road, which led to the factory.

“I don't ever drink, because this happened once before, years ago. Did I—did I do anything else?”

“Mrs. Winn isn't going to press charges, if that's what you're worried about. I think I have her talked out of it.”

“Who's Mrs. Winn?”

“A lady friend of mine who dropped by last night.” Lark chugalugged the remains of a beer. It made him feel slightly better. “You kept yelling about Turkish fiends raping helpless women.”

“Oh, God, I didn't?”

“You didn't consummate the act, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Shoot me, Lieutenant. Put me out of my misery.”

Lark pulled into the parking lot and grabbed a vice-president's parking space in front of the administration building. “We're here.”

“What in the world will I tell Nory?” Horse opened his eyes.

“I've already called her.”

“Wait one damn minute! I want to go home.”

“You better take a beer.”

“I'm going home, and tomorrow you can find me at the intersection of Main and First.”

“I was pretty pissed at you last night and drew up a list of preliminary charges: discharge of a service revolver, destruction of property, attempted rape, and assault on a superior officer. You'll be on the street in ten minutes.”

“You've screwed me to the wall, haven't you, Lark? You set me up.”

“Something like that, partner.” Lark left the pickup and Horse winced as the door slammed.

“You bastard, you're worse than they said you were.”

“I could have told you that,” Lark said as he entered the building.

Rose Harris looked worried. “I agreed over the telephone to do what you wanted, but I'm not comfortable with it.”

“It's only for a few days and we're not actually going on your payroll.”

“There are other factors. Suppose you should be injured? We might have an insurance liability.”

“We're police officers on duty. The benevolent city of Middleburg takes care of all our needs.”

“Well, act like you're new employees. To begin with, we must issue you safety glasses and shoes with steel toes; then I'll introduce you to your supervisors.”

“I wish I'd drunk that beer,” Horse said as he gingerly touched his forehead.

They picked up the glasses and work shoes at the small nurse's office off the main factory floor, and then followed Rose Harris, in single file, around the floor of the building in a pathway bracketed by red safety lines that safely skirted all machinery and hoists.

“I hate this. I really hate this,” Lark heard Rose Harris say over the thumping din of machinery.

He grabbed her elbow. “Don't worry about us. We're going to blend in and not rock the boat.”

“It's not you I'm worried about. It's Renfroe Martin.”

“Who's he?”

“The foreman on this team. You'll see what I mean when you meet him.”

After circumnavigating three-quarters of the floor, they arrived at a small glass-enclosed office that had room enough for a single desk and chair. The desk was covered with time cards and engineers' drawings. Renfroe Martin scowled at a job order. Lark's first personal assessment was that he wore glasses, but then everyone wore the safety glasses. Martin had a chestnut-colored, elongated, bald head. His facial flesh seemed to rise under his cheekbones, giving his features a pinched look. He had a rangy build, with long, tapering fingers, one of which was grotesquely disfigured from some long-ago industrial accident. As they entered the office and he looked up, his scowl turned to a malevolent grin.

“This is Mr. Najankian, who is to be trained on your team. Mr. Lark will work with Harper.”

“Formal today, aren't you, Rose? You weren't that way last night, when you gave me some of the best I ever had.”

“Cut it out, Martin,” she said as her cheeks flushed.

“She likes it doggy-style,” Martin said. “Can't ever get enough. Best black meat I ever had.”

Rose's fist slammed on the desk. “Listen, you rednecked son of a bitch! Any more of that, and you'll end up on sexual and racial charges. Do you understand?”

“Who's going to bring charges, baby sweet? The personnel manager? Can't you take a joke?”

“You're not funny.”

His hand reached out and pinched her rear. She slapped him in return.

“Fiery bitch, aren't you?” His eyes were cold and expressionless.

“I've had it with you, Martin.”

“I run the best team in this dump, honey. No one is going to bounce me. Check the production figures and you'll see why management loves me. We turn out more bottles than either of the other two shifts.”

“Because your people are scared to death of you.”

“It gets results.”

Lark tried to place the voice and listen for any similarity to the one on the tapes, but the factory din and Martin's bantering tone made any comparison invalid.

“Let's get out of here, Lark,” she said as they left the office.

“Why don't you do something about him?”

“I really should, but maybe I'm reluctant because I'm a black woman and management. If the situation were reversed, I'd have his ass.”

Lark laughed. “I bet you would.” He thought it interesting that Renfroe Martin's name was on the list of those employees who owned campers.

They followed the floor's perimeter around the building to another small office, where Rose paused with her hand on the knob. “You'll be working with the factory floor clerk. That will give you mobility to wander around.”

Lark nodded as they went inside, where he was introduced to Herb Harper. Harper was of average height, but his round physique made him appear shorter. He was hips and rear, with a pudgy face bisected by large, wire-rim glasses. He shook hands with a limp hand and damp palms.

“This is Mr. Lark, Herb. We want you to break him in on the factory clerk's job.”

Harper blanched. “Did I do anything wrong? Isn't my work satisfactory?”

“This isn't anything personal,” the personnel officer said quickly as she sensed the pudgy man's fears. “Mr. Lark won't be with this team permanently, but we thought you would be the best man to train him.”

A sense of relief was obvious in his voice. “Oh, yes, I'd be glad to train him.”

“If you have any questions, Mr. Lark, don't hesitate to come see me.” She smiled and then hurried from the office.

“Have you done this work before?” Herb said while simultaneously making rapid entries into a calculator on the desk.

“Not really,” Lark replied. “I put twenty-five into this man's army, mostly as a supply sergeant, so I'm used to working with figures.”

“That'll help. We do lots of figure work here on this job.” More calculations, and then rapid entries onto a printed form.

“Need an army field jacket? I got thirty home. They were my good-bye present to myself,” Lark lied.

“Yeah, I'd like one. How much do you want for it?”

“Ten bucks.”

“Bring it in tomorrow.”

Lark wondered where he would be able to get an army field jacket, since his had torn years ago. An army-navy store, he supposed. “Sure.”

“First thing every shift, we take production readings from the blowing machines,” Harper said as he took down a clipboard and inserted another form under the clasp. “Follow me.”

They went out to the perimeter walk and began to make their way down the line of machines. They stopped at each one to jot down readings in the appropriate box on the form.

“In addition to this,” Harper yelled over the din of machines, “we tally time cards on a daily basis and note every shipment loaded on the trucks. You'll catch on.”

The incessant noise on the work floor was getting to Lark, and the pressure of his hangover headache was increasing. They continued working their way around the floor, stopping every twenty feet at another machine to take a reading.

The noise made it impossible to carry on a true conversation, and Lark noticed that some of the men wore earplugs. The work for each man at his machine was mostly one of observation: they checked temperatures, chemical feed to the innards, pressure on the press, and the movement of completed bottles as they flowed onto the conveyor belts. He supposed there were machine breakdowns that had to be corrected, and that would provide some variety on the job, but it seemed a rare occurrence.

The men on the machines looked bored, the women sorting and packaging the finished product had zombielike expressions, which meant their minds were at some distant place. He knew why he was attracted to policework. For all its contact with society's underclass, it did provide a varied day filled with potential adventure and kaleidoscoping events that constantly required alertness.

He knew that years working one of these machines would drive him mad. Perhaps it did that to those working here; maybe it had driven one of them far around the bend to the point where he extracted revenge upon young women.

They finished rounds and returned to the small office where Harper showed him the proper way to enter their readings. “You know, Lark,” the factory clerk said, “I'm surprised to see you working here. I woulda thought you'd have a nice fat pension from the army.”

“Not as much as you'd think,” Lark said. “You can get by on it, but you can't buy any big-ticket items. Like my buddy and me want to buy one of those recreational campers and tour the country. You know the kind I mean, where you live behind the driver's seat? Don't tell them in the front office, but that's why we took these jobs.”

“Yeah, those campers are great. I have one and use it every chance I get.”

“Is that a fact?” Lark replied, but he already knew that Harper had a camper. It was on the list from MVD and he had memorized every name on that list. “I'd certainly like to see it. Maybe you can give me some pointers on what to look for when I buy one?”

“I'll bring it to work one day. Lots of guys here have them. I'll bet there are half a dozen on the lot right now.”

“Do you think you could arrange it so my buddy and I could go through them? You know, for pointers.”

“I'll set it up during meal break.”

“That would be great, Herb. I'll give you that field jacket for nothing.” He wondered if Horse had an old field jacket.

After three days of checking recreational vehicles parked in the lot, the dirty blue Pathfinder with the drawn curtains was the only one they hadn't checked out. Herb Harper stood by its door and shook his head. “We can't go in this one.”

“Why not?”

Harper started back toward the loading-dock entrance. “It belongs to Renfroe, and no one, but no one, unless they're female, gets in there.”

“See you later, Herb,” Lark said, “and thanks for putting it together. Hope you like the field jacket.” It had taken Lark until nearly midnight three nights before to locate Manny Epstein of Manny's Army and Navy Store and get him to open up the store to sell him a field jacket.

Horse tried to peer through the front windshield. “I can't see zilch. There's a partition behind the driver's seat.”

Lark removed a small pick from his wallet. “I'll be in there in ten seconds.” He bent toward the door lock.

“You touch that door and I grab ass,” the voice behind him said.

Lark whirled as his hand automatically reached to a missing holster. “No big deal, Martin. We're in the market for a camper and are checking out those on the lot.”

“Not my fuckmobile you aren't. Beat it!” The man's eyes were opaque.

“I said we meant no harm.”

“Seems to me, Lark, that you were meaning to bust in. You know, at this company we don't take to thieves. What are you after, the hi-fi?”

“You call me a thief again, Martin, and I'll drive you through the pavement.”

“You don't scare me.” Martin's hand held a knife. A button was pressed and a long blade sprang forward.

“Okay, cream puff.” Lark stepped forward bent in a fighting crouch, both arms extended wide and palms slanted.

Horse grabbed Lark's shoulder. “Take it easy, Lieutenant.”

A foppish smile creased Martin's face. “Okay, so you were curious. I'll take your word for it.” He snapped the knife shut and slipped it back into his pocket. “Just stay away from my camper, boy, okay?” He started to walk back to the factory. “Break's over. Back on the floor,” he yelled without turning.

Lark pulled a list from his pocket and ran a finger down the column. He crossed off names with a stubby pencil. “I have appointments to check out the last of them tonight at the guy's homes, and Herb's bringing his in tomorrow.”

“And that will knock them off except for Renfroe Martin's.” He jerked a hand toward the Pathfinder with the shrouded windows.

Lark was weary. He turned the pickup into the driveway of the Milligan Machine Company and drove around the building to his trailer. Screw the security check. He didn't feel up to the walk around the building. It was nearly midnight; if someone was going to lift the joint, they had already done it.

They had divided the remaining list of campers in half and had met later at Gino's Pizza to compare results:

“I know more about recreational vehicles than I really care to know,” Horse had said. “Geez, they talk your head off.”

Lark's experience had been similar. The factory employees who owned campers had been more than willing to extol the virtues of their trucklike rolling homes. Husbands and wives vied with each other to tell of the lure of outdoor life and the mobility the vhicles gave them. They never seemed to see the contradiction in their motives. The campers were all equipped with full kitchens and myriad appliances, televisions, stereos, and air-conditioners. It was far from the backpacks and pup tents that Lark remembered from his camping days.