1973 - Have a Change of Scene (3 page)

She was scribbling on a yellow form as I came into the tiny room, and she looked up and regarded me.

I stood in the doorway, unsure of myself, wondering what the hell I was doing here.

‘Larry Carr?’ Her voice was low toned and rich. ‘Come on in.’

As I moved in, the telephone bell started up. She waved me to the only other chair, then took up the receiver. Her replies, consisting of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, were crisp and impersonal. She seemed to have the technique of cutting off what could have been a lengthy conversation had she not been able to control the speaker.

Finally, she replaced the receiver, ran her pencil through her hair and smiled at me. The moment she smiled she became a different person. It was a wonderful, open smile of warmth and friendliness.

‘Sorry. This thing never stops ringing. So you want to help?’

I sat down.

‘If I can.’ I wondered if I really meant this.

‘But not in those beautiful clothes.’

I forced a smile.

‘No, but don’t blame me. Your uncle didn’t warn me.’

She nodded.

‘My uncle is a wonderful man, but he doesn’t bother with details.’ She leaned back and regarded me. ‘He told me about you. I believe in speaking frankly. I know about your problem, and I’m sorry about it, but it doesn’t interest me, because I have hundreds of my own problems. Uncle Henry told me you want to get straightened out, but that is your problem, and in my thinking, it is up to you to straighten yourself out.’ She put her hands on the soiled blotter and smiled at me. ‘Please understand. In this dreadful town there is a lot of work to do and a lot of help to be given. I need help and I haven’t time for sympathy.’

‘I’m here to help.’ I couldn’t keep the resentment out of my voice. Who did she imagine she was talking to? ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘If I could only believe you really are here to help,’ she said.

‘I’m telling you. I’m here to help. So what do I do?’

She took from a drawer a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered it.

I produced the gold cigarette case Sydney had given me for my last birthday. It was rather special. It had set Sydney back $1,500: a cigarette case I was proud of: call it a status symbol if you like. Even some of my clients gave it a double take when I produced it.

‘Have one of mine?’ I said.

She looked at the glittering case and then at me.

‘Is that really gold?’

‘This?’ I turned it in my hand so she could see every inch of it. ‘Oh, sure.’

‘But isn’t it very valuable?’

The cement dust felt a little more gritty around my neck.

‘It was a present, fifteen hundred dollars.’ I offered it. ‘Do you want to smoke one of mine?’

‘No, thank you.’ She took a cigarette from her crumpled pack and dragged her eyes away from the cigarette case. ‘Be careful with that,’ she went on. ‘It could be stolen.’

‘They steal things here?’

She nodded and accepted a light from my gold lighter one of my clients had given me.

‘Fifteen hundred dollars? For that amount of money I could supply ten of my families with food for a month.’

‘You have ten families?’ I put the cigarette case back into my hip pocket. ‘Really?’

‘I have two thousand five hundred and twenty-two families,’ she said quietly. She opened a drawer in her battered desk and took from it a street plan of Luceville. She placed it on the desk so I could see it.

The plan had been divided up into five sections with a felt pen: each section was marked from 1 to 5.

‘You should know what you’re walking into,’ she went on. ‘Let me explain.’

She went on to tell me there were five welfare workers in the town: all professionals. Each had a section of the town to look after: she was in charge of the dirtiest end of the stick. She glanced up and smiled. ‘No one else wanted it, so I took it. I’ve been here for the past two years. My job is to give help when help is genuinely needed. I have a fund which is far from adequate to draw on. I visit people. I make reports. The reports have to be broken down and put on cards.’ She tapped No. 5 section on the plan. ‘This is my beat. It contains probably the worst of the worst in this dreadful town: close on four thousand people, including kids who are no longer kids after they are seven years old. Out here.’ Her pencil moved from the ringed section of No. 5 and tapped just beyond the town’s boundary, ‘is the Florida Women’s House of Correction. This is a very tough prison: not only are the prisoners tough, but the conditions are tough: most of them are long term and a lot of them hopeless criminals. Up to three months ago, prison visitors weren’t allowed, but I’ve finally convinced the people concerned that I can be helpful.’ The telephone bell rang and again she went through her crisp ‘yes’ and ‘no’ routine and hung up.

‘I am allowed one unpaid helper,’ she went on as if the telephone conversation hadn’t happened. ‘People do volunteer as you have volunteered. Your job would be to keep the card index straight, take care of the telephone, handle any emergency until I can fix it, type my reports if you can read my awful handwriting. In fact, you will hold everything down until I can get back to this desk and hold it down myself.’

I shifted in the uncomfortable chair. What the hell was Melish thinking of, or didn’t he know? She didn’t want a man with my background, she wanted an efficient girl who could cope with office work.

This was strictly no job for me.

I told her so as politely as I could, but I couldn’t keep the resentment out of my voice.

‘This is not a job for a girl,’ Jenny said. ‘My last volunteer was a retired accountant. He was sixty-five years of age with nothing to do except play golf and bridge. He jumped at the chance to help me, and he lasted two weeks. I didn’t blame him when he quit.’

‘You mean the job bored him?’

‘No it didn’t bore him. He became frightened.’

I stared at her.

‘Frightened? You mean there was too much work for him to do?’

She smiled her warm smile.

‘No. He was a glutton for work. He did a marvellous job while he lasted. For the first time my records were really straightened out. No he couldn’t take what came in through that door from time to time,’ and she nodded at the door of the tiny office. ‘You had better know, Larry, there is a gang of kids who terrorise this section of the city. They are known to the police as the Jinx gang. Their ages run from ten to twenty years. There are about thirty of them. The leader is Spooky Jinx - that’s what he calls himself - he imagines he is a Mafia character. He is vicious and extremely dangerous and the other kids follow him slavishly. The police can’t do anything about him: he’s far too smart. They have picked up quite a few of the gang, but never Spooky.’ She paused and then went on, ‘Spooky has the idea that I am prying. He thinks I give information to the police. He thinks all the people I try to help should get on without my help. He and his gang regard their parents as creeps because they accept the handouts I can arrange for them: milk for the babies, clothes, coal and so on and so on and because I help them with their problems like how they can pay their rent, about their hire purchase all their troubles they share with me. Spooky thinks I interfere, and he makes my life difficult. Every so often they come here and try and frighten me.’

Again the warm smile. ‘They don’t frighten me, but up to now they have succeeded in frightening my voluntary helpers.’

I listened, but I didn’t believe. Some kid this didn’t make sense to me.

‘I don’t think I’m quite with you,’ I said. ‘You mean this kid scared your accountant friend and he quit? How did this kid do that?’

‘He’s very persuasive. You must remember that this job is unpaid. My accountant friend explained it all to me. He is no longer young. He didn’t think the job was worth the threat.’

‘Threat?’

‘The usual thing - if he didn’t quit they would find him one dark night. They are vicious.’ She regarded me, her face suddenly grave. ‘He has a wife and a nice home. He decided to quit.’

I felt a sudden tightening of my belly. I knew all about delinquent kids. Who hasn’t read about them?

A dark night and suddenly to be set upon by a bunch of little savages: no holds barred. A kick in the face could lose a set of decent teeth. A kick in the groin could make a man impotent.

But could such a thing happen to me?

‘You don’t have to volunteer,’ Jenny said. She seemed to know what was going on in my mind. ‘Why should you? Uncle Henry doesn’t think of details. I’ve said that before, haven’t I?’

‘Let’s get this straight,’ I said. ‘Are you telling me these kids - this Spooky - could threaten me if I worked with you?’

‘Oh yes, sooner or later, he will threaten you.’

‘Does his threat amount to anything?’

She crushed out her cigarette as she said, ‘I’m afraid it does.’

A change of scene?

I thought for a long moment. I suddenly became aware that during this talk with this woman I hadn’t once thought of Judy. This hadn’t happened since the crash. Maybe a kick in the face or even in the groin would make a change.

‘When do I start work?’ I said.

Her warm smile enveloped me.

‘Thank you - you start as soon as you have bought yourself a sweat shirt and jeans, and please don’t use that beautiful cigarette case.’ She got to her feet. ‘I have to go. I won’t be back until four o’clock. I’ll explain about the records and the card index system then - then you are in business.’

We went down the six flights of stairs to the street and I saw her into the cement-dusty Fiat 500. She paused before starting the engine.

‘Thank you for volunteering. I think we’ll make out.’ She regarded me for a moment through the tiny side window. ‘I’m sorry about your problem. It’ll come out all right - you have to be patient,’ and she drove away.

I stood on the ledge of the kerb, feeling cement dust settling over me and the humid heat turning the dust into gritty sweat. I liked her. As I stood there, I wondered what I was walking into. Did I scare easily? I didn’t know. It was when the crunch came that I would know.

I walked down the narrow, noisy street to Main Street in search of a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt.

I wasn’t aware when it happened, but it happened.

A dirty, ragged kid, around nine years of age, suddenly barged into me, sending me staggering. He pursed his lips and made a loud rude noise as he darted away.

It wasn’t until I got back to the Bendix Hotel that I found the back of my expensive jacket had been slashed by a razor blade and my gold cigarette case gone.

TWO

A
fter I had changed into sweat shirt and jeans, I went along to the cop house to report the loss of the cigarette case. I found, a little to my surprise, I wasn’t fazed about losing it, but I knew Sydney would be devastated, and it was only fair to him to make an effort to get it back.

The charge room was thick with cement dust and the smell of unwashed feet. Sitting on a long bench against one of the walls were some ten kids: dirty, ragged and sullen. They regarded me with their small dark eyes as I walked up to the Desk Sergeant.

He was a vast hunk of human flesh with a face like a lump of raw beef. He was in shirt sleeves and sweat trickled down is face and into the creases of his thick neck, mingling with the cement dust. He was rolling a stub of pencil backwards and forwards on the blotter, and as I approached him, he raised himself slightly to break wind.

The kids on the bench giggled.

When I told him about losing the cigarette case he continued to roll the pencil backwards and forwards. Then he suddenly looked up and his pig eyes went over me with the intensity of a blowtorch.

‘You a stranger here?’ he asked. His voice was husky as if worn out with shouting.

I said I was a stranger here, that I had just arrived, that I was going to work with Miss Baxter, the welfare officer.

He pushed his cap to the back of his head, stared at his stub of pencil, sighed and produced a form. He told me to fill it in, then he continued to roll the pencil.

I filled in the form and returned it to him. Under the heading of ‘Value of article stolen’ I had put $1,500.

He read what I had written, then I saw his massive face tighten and pushing the form back to me, placing a dirty finger on the ‘Value of article stolen’ column, he demanded in his husky voice, ‘What’s this?’

‘That’s what the cigarette case is worth,’ I said.

He muttered something under his breath, stared at me, then at the form.

‘My jacket was slashed by a razor blade,’ I said.

‘That right? Your jacket worth fifteen hundred bucks too?’

‘The suit cost three hundred dollars.’

He released a snorting breath down his thick nostrils.

‘You got a description of the kid?’

‘Around nine years of age, dark, bushy hair, black shirt and jeans,’ I said.

‘See him there?’

I turned and looked at the row of kids. Most of them were dark with bushy hair: most of them were wearing black shirts and jeans.

‘Could be any one of them,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ He stared at me. ‘You’re sure about the value of the case?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Yeah.’ He rubbed the back of his sweaty neck, then put the form on the top of a pile of similar forms.

‘If we find it you’ll hear from us.’ A pause, then, ‘Staying long?’

‘Two or three months.’

‘With Miss Baxter?’

‘That’s the idea.’

He studied me for a brief moment, then a slow smile of contempt chased across his face.

‘Some idea.’

‘Don’t you think I’ll last that long?’

He sniffed, then began rolling the pencil again.

‘If we find it you’ll hear. Fifteen hundred bucks, huh?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, then suddenly in a voice like a clap of thunder, he bawled, ‘Sit still, you little bastards, or I’ll get amongst you!’

I walked out, and as I reached the door I heard him say to another cop who was propping up one of the dirty walls, ‘Another nutter.’

It was now twenty after 13.00. I went in search of a restaurant, but there didn’t seem to be any restaurants in Main Street. I finally settled for a greasy hamburger in a bar, crowded with sweaty, dirt— smelling men who looked suspiciously at me and then away.