Brian Newell approached a frosted glass door with The Honorable J. J. Carpenter in brassy gold leaf across it. A grinding noise came from inside. He waited for the noise to stop and knocked.
“Yes?” a woman called.
“Nelly? Nelly Sheridan? It’s Brian Newell from Stobo de Pas Park. We spoke a couple times when I interviewed. I have an appointment with Commissioner Carpenter.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know, I saw him in the parking lot.”
“Then you know.” The grinding re-commenced.
He waited for it to cease and knocked. “Is anybody here I can talk to about the park? I have a list, and I have a problem.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Brian. Brian Newell.”
“The new Pearl?”
“The new director at Stobo de Pas Park. Not the new Pearl.”
“Six-a-one,” she said.
Locks clicked; bolts slid — a knob turned; the door swung open. The scent of patchouli wafted out like a flashback from the seventies. Nelly Sheridan stuck her head into the hallway, looked left, right, then squinted up into Brian’s face. She lifted rimless glasses hanging from a bejeweled chain around her neck. Her eyes darted side-to-side behind their oversized lenses. A fluorescent orange noise-reduction rig wrapped her neck; its earmuffs rested on her shoulders. A sky-blue bandana wrapped her cloud white hair. A braid, thick as a ship’s hawser, fell down the back of her earth-toned peasant blouse. The shirt’s drawstrings corralled her sun-ravaged decolletage above faded jeans and red-beaded, soft leather moccasins.
““Come in, if you’re coming.” She stepped aside.
The small anteroom held a plastic-jugged water cooler, a coffee table with tattered magazines strewn across it, and a blue suede couch. A portrait of Commissioner J.J. Carpenter in slashing strokes of riotous tropical acrylic grinned above the couch.
Nelly pushed past Brian, shutting the door. She twisted the deadbolt’s lever, slid a locking rod, then turned to face him, back braced against the door. “Who saw you come in?”
“What? I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” She shook her head. “Impossible. I say again, who saw you come in?”
“A bunch of people.”
“A bunch? They’re not bananas.” She snapped her fingers. “I need names.”
“Some guy in the parking lot. Said his name was Roger.”
“Carlisle? Gave me herpes in the eighties. Who else?”
“A television reporter. Charles….”
“Plessy? That old reprobate. Who else?”
“Carmen Gómez.”
“Carmen Gómez? Describe her.”
“Green hair…”
“Green hair? No.” She fluttered her hands. “Jesus.”
“Marcos Rivas stopped me.”
“That zero. What did you tell him?”
“He accused me of putting a sign on the metal detector. I told him I didn’t do it.”
“That’s right. You didn’t do it. Even if they have video and a roomful of witnesses. You didn’t do it.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
“That’s between you and your god. Who else?”
“The security guard, Sylvie.”
“Awake or asleep?”
“Awake.” He snapped his wristwatch from beneath his sleeve. “She said the watch my father gave me was fake.”
“She would know. Who else?”
“The lobby was full of people. One guy said I was number one hundred seventy-four on his org chart.”
“Fat? Bald with hair plugs?”
“That’s him.”
“Crespo… In cahoots with the feds. Next time you see him smile and say, real loud, ‘Nelly Sheridan said that’s some sweet property you got down in the Caymans.’ He’ll get the message.”
“What’s the message?”
“Don’t fuck with momma bear, unless you want to be devoured, limb by limb, before she starts on your wife, children and relatives back three generations.”
Brian laughed. “That’s funny.”
“Everybody laughs until the bear chews their fucking arm off.” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I don’t have time for this.” She pushed past Brian into her office. “What? You just going to stand there?”
“Yes. What? No.” he said, following her through the door.
Bulging manila folders rose in neat piles from the floor toward the ceiling. More climbed like stalagmites from open file drawers. Narrow paths twisted between piles to two frosted glass doors – the left one labeled, “Storage Closet;” the right, “Private.” Mid-room, beside a cluttered desktop, sat a wheeled contraption with an opening the size of a small hatchback. A touchscreen on its left side flashed red: Destroy Destroy Destroy. A name plate above the screen read THE EXONERATOR IV: Shred today, avoid questions tomorrow. Nelly pulled the muffs over her ears, grabbed an armload of files, tossed them into the maw.
The machine roared and gnawed, pulverized and destroyed. A canvas bag behind the machine ballooned with fine dust. The room quieted. The Exonerator belched.
“I told J. J. a million times, this obsession with paper would be his downfall.” She grabbed another pile and tossed it in.
Brian clapped his hands over his ears.
The paper disappeared.
“Are you sure you should be doing this?”
Nelly pulled the muffs from her ears. “What?”
“I asked if you should be doing this?”
“Doing what?” She snapped a fold of paper from her jean’s back pocket and handed it to him. “Memo from the city attorney, reminding us of the annual records disposal policy. I made copies. Keep it. Could be handy someday.”
Brian scanned the memo. It directed city staff to proceed with all necessary haste to destroy any and all documents judged to be immaterial or unnecessary for a full accounting of their office’s activities for the year prior, ending September 30, as prescribed by city regulations, state statutes, and applicable federal law. It closed, “As always, let your conscience be your guide.”
“That’s a year’s worth?”
“We’ve been remiss. It’s about seven, give or take. Anything before that, they can read all they want.”
“Who’s they?”
“The enemy.”
“And the enemy is?”
“Anybody not in this conversation.”
“So, you and me, we’re not the enemy?”
“Unless one of us proves otherwise.”
“Good to know.” Brian nodded. “Is Raul Mendoza in?”
Nelly yelled, “Raul,” grabbed an arm load of files and threw them into the EXONERATOR.
