Dear Old Dead(76)

“Was there anything else on this floor except your manager’s office? Were there other offices?”

“The place was a big production. The revue was a secret. You had to have a pass to get in and they were very careful because of the raids. But there was a bookstore they had, too, with dirty books and a video rental place and one of those peep shows that are all over down there. There were lots of offices on that floor, but they all belonged to the same company. Us. If you see what I mean. And besides, I know he was coming from my manager’s office because I heard him talking.”

“To your manager.”

“That’s right. He was saying, ‘Raids or no raids, if this place doesn’t bring in a profit, there’s no point in keeping it going. Do something.’ And my manager was all jumpy. ‘Do what?’ he kept asking. I can’t go drag johns in from the street. Not for something like this.’ But it was really obvious what was going on. It was really obvious who this man was. The one who turned out later to be Charles van Straadt.”

“Who was he?”

“The owner, of course, or somebody connected to the owner. But I thought at the time that he had to be the owner, because of the way he was dressed and everything. And now that I know he was Charles van Straadt, I’m sure of it. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Gregor told her.

Julie wriggled around in her seat. “I thought, you know, that it might be good news for Dr. Pride. Because a man like that, an old man that owns that kind of place, well, he knows all sorts of people who might want to murder him. People who know how to murder people, if you see what I mean.”

“I think those people tend more to bullet holes in the back of the head than to strychnine.”

“Those people would do anything,” Julie said staunchly. “Michael wouldn’t kill anybody.”

Gregor was about to say that he agreed with her, he didn’t think Michael Pride would kill anybody, when there was a commotion near the cash register, and like everyone else in the cafeteria he turned to look. For a moment or two it was difficult to decipher what was going on. The cafeteria had filled up a little since Gregor and Julie had first sat down. A little clutch of people with half-filled trays blocked Gregor’s view of the scene of the commotion. Then one of the women moved away a little and Gregor saw. Martha van Straadt was standing next to the cash register, her back to the cashier, her arms folded across her chest. Facing her was a confused looking Robbie Yagger, holding nothing at all. Gregor looked around for a tray or a paper cup of coffee, but found nothing.

“Excuse me for a second,” he told Julie Enderson. Then he got up and began to advance on the cafeteria line.

“You!” Martha van Straadt was screeching. “You. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here. I can’t believe you have the nerve to just walk in and drink our coffee. Who do you think you are? What do you think you’re doing?”

Robbie Yagger seemed to be swaying a little on his feet. “I don’t feel so good,” he said. “It tasted funny.”

“What tasted funny?” Gregor asked, coming up next to Robbie on the other side of the rail.

Martha van Straadt was still screeching. “He doesn’t feel so good. Hell. Why should I care how he feels? Why should any of us? He doesn’t care how we feel. He stands out there day after day, carrying that damn sign, terrifying half the clients going into the family planning clinic, how do they know what he’s going to do? How do any of us know?”

“It was the coffee.” Robbie Yagger’s voice was oddly distinct. “It tasted funny. It had stuff in it.”

“What kind of stuff?” Gregor asked him.

Martha van Straadt advanced on them both. “I want him out of here,” she said. “I want him off these premises. And I don’t want to see him back until he apologizes to every woman in this center for his bigotry, his fanaticism, and his bad manners.”

“For God’s sake,” someone in the crowd murmured. “She can’t throw him out of here just because he doesn’t approve of abortion. What about the nuns?”

“I’m not carrying the sign any more,” Robbie Yagger said. “I changed my mind.”

“She doesn’t care about abortion,” someone else in the crowd said. “She’s just Martha van Straadt. She thinks she can run everybody else’s life just the way she wants to.”

Gregor ducked under the rail. Robbie’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. He seemed to be petrifying in front of Gregor’s eyes.