Laura Lippman - In A Strange City

“I had forgotten Capone was treated for his syphilis here. He gave Union Memorial the cherry trees out front, right?”

“They called it porphyria in the newspaper accounts-delusions of grandeur. Although in his case it might better have been called delusions of squalor. At one point, he thought he was the head of a large factory, which is a funny dream for someone as powerful as Capone. You know, it wasn’t the only time he lived in Baltimore. He was a bookkeeper here.”

“Interesting euphemism.”

“No, truly. His patron had gone to Chicago, and Capone moved down from New York, waiting to be called up, almost like a ballplayer in the minor leagues. He was totally legit while he was here, working for a construction company and living in Highlandtown.”

Tess tried to envision what the world might be like today if Capone had fallen in love with his life here and decided to go straight. But the one thing she knew about history is that there is no shortage of men-or women-willing to step forward and play the role of villain. It’s not unlike the NCAA tournament: The top seed may not win, but someone has to. That’s why she could never warm up to science-fiction plots where people traveled back in time, intent on assassinating Hitler or Stalin, John Wilkes Booth or Timothy McVeigh. There would have been another Capone or McVeigh, another St. Valentine’s Day massacre or Oklahoma City bombing. Evil isn’t particular about its personnel.

She didn’t think it worked the same way for the good guys. Only one Lincoln, one Gandhi. Them she would save, if she ever happened on a time-travel device.

“Bobby could talk,” Daniel continued. “I mean, he could cast a spell with words, as surely as a snake charmer does with his little pipe. He was pouring it on, impressing me with his knowledge of Baltimore trivia, keeping up this stream of gossip about our colleagues. He was trying to distract me-because the minute he thought my back was turned, I saw him slip the pillbox in his pocket.”

“What did you do?”

Daniel looked miserable. “Nothing. Not then, at any rate. I-I was scared to confront him.”

“Scared? Based on the description of Bobby in the newspaper, and what I saw of him at the grave site, you’ve got a good thirty pounds on him.”

“You were there? You saw the shooting?” Tess nodded brusquely, not wanting him to get off track. “Is that why you came to the library?”

“Sort of. So Bobby intimidated you. Why?”

“You know how there are these people who, even into adulthood, make you feel like the biggest nerd in the world? Bobby had that effect on people. He was… cool, for want of a better word. If I had said anything to him, he would have laughed at me-and ended up persuading me it was okay, somehow, to take the pillbox. So I kept quiet. Until the next day, when I told our supervisor what I had seen.”

“You got him fired.”

Daniel nodded, eyes fixed on his glass of beer. “He was allowed to resign, as long as he returned the pillbox and agreed not to use the Pratt for a reference for future library work. They tried to get him to confess that he had taken other things as well-mainly rare books and maps from the Maryland Room-but he swore up and down it was a one-time lapse.”

“But if he was a thief, why not call the police?”

“Because they couldn’t be sure. If the Pratt had called the police, nothing would have been gained, and the Beacon-Light would have gotten wind of it and run a story, which could have scared off people who were planning to donate things in the future.”

“I can’t believe people would be so unforgiving.”

“Huh. Perhaps you know a different kind of rich people. The ones I’ve come in contact with are not only unforgiving but demanding. There was a small private museum up in Philadelphia that lost its endowment after it was revealed a rare piece of jewelry had been stolen. Everyone who had pledged money broke their pledges, and the museum never got off the ground.”

“All because of a single theft?”

“A single theft worth an estimated five hundred thousand dollars. Anyway, it was the library board’s decision to keep the Bobby incident quiet. It’s not as if the library could file an insurance claim or replace what was taken. They were one-of-a-kind items.”

“Such as?”

His glasses had slipped to the end of his nose again. Again, he pushed them up with his thumb. “An early map book of Maryland from the 1700s. A journal kept by one of the Calverts. A copy of the Saturday Visiter with Poe’s ”MS in a Bottle‘-you know, the story he won the prize for, right here in Baltimore. Some letters by Dunbar. That’s what I remember hearing about. I was never convinced Bobby took them, to tell you the truth. Except maybe the map book. Bobby liked…pretty things. Given the choice between something truly rare and something merely beautiful, Bobby would choose beauty. He cared about appearances. That’s why he took the pillbox. It was pretty.“

The bartender put down plates of food in front of them-a wild mushroom risotto for Tess, straccetti for Daniel-and replenished their glasses. Daniel began to eat quickly as if famished.

“I forgot to pack a lunch today” he said, reddening in embarrassment when he caught Tess watching him plow through his food. But Tess felt nothing but admiration and kinship for his appetite. “And I can’t work up much enthusiasm for the hot-dog stand outside the Pratt.”

“Really? I love them.” About every three months, Tess had intense cravings for the grayish tubes found at the handful of portable carts on the city’s corners. The lack of street food was one of her only complaints about Baltimore.

“So the last time you saw Bobby Hilliard-” she began.

“It has to have been at least a year.”

“You said not five minutes ago that it was six months ago.”

“I did?” Daniel looked panicky, as if she had set out to trap him, but the mix-up only convinced Tess of his sincerity. Average people contradict themselves endlessly. It is liars who seldom slip up, whose stories fit together too smoothly. “Actually it was last April-I remember it was cold and rainy, a typical Baltimore April-so I guess I was wrong on both counts. I ran into him in a bar, after going to see those very early paintings by Herman Maril. Do you know his work?”

Tess did, if only because Crow had taught her to love the late local artist, who used color with such tender precision.

“His early stuff is very different from the more famous pieces at the Baltimore Museum of Art. You can see the artist he’s going to become, but he’s borrowing from the Impressionists, still trying to find his… I want to say voice, but I guess that’s a mixed metaphor. I don’t know much about art, but I do like First Thursdays.”

First Thursdays was a moniker the city had hung on a night dedicated to museum openings and gallery exhibits. It was one-third art appreciation, one-third singles gathering, one-third pub crawl. Tess wondered which third was the biggest draw for Daniel. He had almost finished his second Moretti, downing it like Gatorade.

“What bar did you see Bobby Hilliard in?” Tess asked.

Her question could not have been more innocent, but Daniel blushed. “The Midtown Yacht Club, okay?”

“Okay.”

She had caught his emphasis. The Midtown Yacht Club was a manly place, where people drank beer, played darts, watched ESPN, and threw their peanut shells on the floor. She supposed this was Daniel’s un-subtle way of telling her that he and Bobby had shared a profession once but nothing more.

“So he told you he was making good money, waiting tables at his current overpriced-restaurant job- what else?”

Daniel shook his shaggy head. “It wasn’t a long conversation. Truthfully, I had the feeling he wasn’t comfortable, running into someone from the library. He cut it short and left.”