Nelly Sheridan grabbed another arm load of manila folders and tossed them into The Exonerator. The machine roared and growled, grinding what may once have been evidence into fairy dust. “See,” she said. “That’s how we do it.”
Brian Newell nodded. “That’s very efficient.”
“I pride myself on efficiency.”
“I can see that.”
Nelly smiled at him for the first time. “What did you say you needed?”
“Raul Mendoza. Is he in?”
“Raul,” Nelly hollered and gathering another arm load of folders she threw them in The Exonerator.
As the machine roared, the “Storage Closet” door swung inward, and a famine thin man appeared. Tall as Brian, the man’s bald head shone as if waxed and buffed. His face gaunt, eyes sunken but bright, he held Brian in a steady gaze from under coal black eyebrows. A matching black beard shadowed cheeks and chin. Its gray rootstock signaled the need for a touch up. He wore a midnight blue Lebron James, Miami Heat jersey. It hung loose as a house dress over a white crew neck t-shirt. His pressed and creased khaki shorts reached knees boney as clenched fists. His twig thin calves ended at bulging ankles above tan deck shoes.
Nelly jerked a thumb at Brian. “Came to see J.J. Says he needs help.”
Raul looked left, right, then tilted his head sideways, looking Brian up and down. “And you are?”
“Brian Newell.”
“Who?”
“The new Pearl,” Nelly said.
“I am not the new Pearl. I’m Brian Newell, the new director at Stobo de Pass Park. We met during my interviews. On Zoom.”
“You’re so much larger in person.”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Is that some kind of fat joke?”
“What? No. You’re not fat.”
“I was until Ozempic.” He shook his head. “Fat shaming still triggers me.”
Nelly pulled a sparkling blue vape pen from her back pocket, sucked in a big breath, held it, then blew pink vapors into the air. Her eyes rolled back. She staggered, then straightened. “Wait till you hear this guy. He’s the new and improved Pearl.”
“I’m not the new anything Pearl. I’m Brian Newell from Philadelphia. You read my C.V. Summers hanging hammocks at Spruce Street Harbor Park. I interned with Dan Biederman’s crew in Bryant Park. I’m going to bring new ideas to Stobo de Pas. I’m not going to do anything that gets me sent to prison.”
“I’m sure Pearl believed he wouldn’t get caught.”
“I’m not going to do anything that would get me caught.”
“Hear that Nelly?”
“What did I tell you? A regular criminal master mind.” Nelly clapped the earmuffs on and tossed another stack of papers into the shredder. When the grinding stopped, she yelled, “Make sure your guys know, this all disappears. When there’s no evidence, there’s no questions.”
“And fewer answers.” Raul turned to Brian. “So, Mister I’m not the new Pearl, what can I do for you?”
“I have questions about the proper procedures to get things done at the park.”
“I can help. Step into my office.” Raul moved aside, and bowing slightly, he swept his arm toward the doorway. “After you…”
Brian pointed at the door. “In the storage closet?”
“The right person in city hall can get anything he wants on his door.”
Brian stepped past Raul into a high-ceilinged room with cream-colored walls and gold flecked, black terrazzo floors. A hint of cedar and a smoldering cigar scented the air. A rattan ceiling fan turned slowly overhead. Dark wood accordion shutters covered a bank of windows in the opposite wall; louvers partially cracked allowed bars of morning sunlight to slip in. Beneath the shutters, atop a hulking wooden desk, sat a large gilt framed photo of a pre-Ozempic Raul beside a smiling Lebron James. Lebron palmed Raul’s bald head as if it were a basketball. An open Apple laptop sat in the desk’s middle; its power cord snaked across the desktop.
To Brian’s right, an elegantly distressed brown leather couch was pushed against the wall. Above it, a flat screen showed the city commission chambers. “Currently in Recess,” ran in an endless crawl at the screen’s bottom. An etched glass decanter half full of brown liquid and four matching glasses sat on a polished silver tray in the middle of a teak coffee table. Beside the tray, a dark wooden humidor flanked a heavy glass ashtray with a smoldering cigar. Two cane backed chairs faced the coffee table. Their back legs resembled the limbs of a large wading bird, with three-toed feet splayed on the floor. The chairs’ arms and front legs were carved like the sinuous neck of a Great Blue Heron. Heads bent; their beaks probed the floor.
Raul pointed at the chairs. “Please. Have a seat.”
Brian ran his hands over the herons’ necks before he dropped into a surprisingly comfortable seat and placed his portfolio on the table. “You have a very nice office.”
“I prefer the simple life.” Raul crossed the room and drew the shutters wide. Sunlight brightened the room.
Brian blinked his eyes shut.
“Not too bright I hope,” Raul said.
“No, it’s fine,” Brian said, squinting.
Passing the desk, Raul slapped the Apple laptop closed. “They say that beast can eat anything.” He grabbed the computer with both hands and wrenched it sideways, sending its power cord and plug whistling through the air.
The laptop’s plug nicked Brian’s left ear. “Ow, shit.” He said, bringing hand to ear. He examined his fingers expecting blood. There was none.
Raul said. “That was close.”
“Close? You hit me.”
“Hit you?” Raul cried. “That’s a little over the top. Looks to me like I almost missed.” He snapped his fingers. “Yes! Almost missed. Much better.”
Raul wrapped the cord around the computer he walked to the doorway. At the threshold, he glanced back at Brian. “Watch and learn… It’s Mendoza from the top of the key.” He launched the laptop like a basketball into the Exonerator’s maw. The machine ground, growled and was quiet. Raul hissed, “He scores,” held both arms high and spun in a circle, before pushing the door closed. He turned the deadbolt’s knob; its bolt clicked home solid as a chambered slug. Rounding the coffee table, he dropped onto the couch. Its cushion hissed like air escaping a punctured tire.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
