Max Collins - Midnight Haul

He sat down on one of the plaid-upholstered couches. He noticed that the quote from the founder (“Industry is people”) was hanging crooked in its frame, above the other couch. He got up and straightened it and sat down again.

Patrick was in his shirt-sleeves with a dark blue tie, and slacks and face about the same color gray. He stood on the other side of the turnstile that separated the reception area and hallway, keeping it between him and Crane.

“What do you want?” he said. His voice seemed strained. The eyes behind the wire frames blinked.

Crane stood. He put on a small smile. “Just want to talk, Patrick.”

“We talked last night.”

“Patrick. Please. I came to apologize, in a way. Could we go to your office?”

Patrick studied Crane for what seemed like a long time. The smile made Crane’s face hurt, but he kept it on.

Finally Patrick motioned at him to come on, nodding at the receptionist that it was okay. Crane went through the turnstile and followed Patrick down the long, rather wide hall.

Patrick told his secretary to hold all calls and closed the door behind Crane and himself. He sat behind his desk. Folded his hands. Crane took a chair and sat across from him, not bothering to smile anymore, but keeping a neutral expression.

“I’ll go to the police,” Patrick said.

“What are you talking about, Patrick?”

“I’m just someone trying to make a living, trying to raise a son. I can’t take this harassment. I won’t be harassed, Crane!”

“Patrick. I told you. I came to apologize.”

“Right.”

“I mean it. I’ve been out of line. Finding out what happened to Boone threw me out of whack. You can understand that.”

Patrick nodded, slowly, still not quite buying it.

“Surely, you admit some strange things have been happening,” Crane said.

“Yes. I admit that.”

“Like the fire. Like the suicides.”

“I told you last night, the police and fire department agreed that there was no evidence of arson.”

“I know you did. But you can understand why I can’t get too worked up over the opinions of Greenwood’s Finest.”

Patrick shrugged. “Crane, if I believed that that had been arson, I’d be the first to complain.”

“Well, sure. I can see how you’d want to do that. I can see where a complaint might be in order.”

Patrick shifted in his swivel chair, studying Crane, looking for sarcasm, not quite finding it.

Crane said, “I came here to tell you I’m leaving Greenwood.”

“You are?”

“That’s right. I’ll send you my address and phone number, in Iowa City. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted, where Boone’s concerned.”

Patrick lifted his eyebrows. “Well, of course. Why not.”

“I know it must’ve been a blow to Boone to lose all her research materials. To have her entire manuscript, months of work, go up in smoke.”

He nodded. “She was devastated. As I told you last night, I’m convinced that’s why she did what she did.”

“Took those pills.”

“Yes.”

“At least there’s one encouraging note.”

“Yes?”

“When we spoke, you and I, five weeks ago, you said Kemco itself was concerned about some of Boone’s findings... the high incidence of certain illnesses among employees and their families, for example. You said Kemco would be doing its own study into the matter.”

“That’s right.”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Well. It’s in the beginning stages. The home office in St. Louis is putting it in motion, I’m told.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Then you’re really going, Crane?”

“Yes. There’s nothing for me, here. I have to get back to Iowa and hit the old books.”

Patrick rose. “Well, then. I’ll show you out.”

Crane smiled again. “No need. I know the way.” He extended his hand to Patrick. “Sorry about our misunderstandings, Patrick. They shook hands across the desk.

Patrick smiled and said, “We might’ve been friends, under different circumstances.”

Crane kept the smile going. “Who knows?” he said.

He left Patrick’s office. He glanced back and saw Patrick had followed him out in the hall, watching him. Crane waved, smiled, went into the room marked MEN.

He went into one of the stalls and sat; he kept his pants up. He sat and looked at his watch. When five minutes had passed he left the stall. He peeked out in the hall. No Patrick.

Down the Hall from Patrick’s office was a door that said PLANT MANAGER.

Crane opened it.

The secretary looked up, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair and glasses and a nice smile. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Johnson?”

“I don’t need one,” Crane said, and opened the door, at the left, which said WALTER JOHNSON, PLANT MANAGER.

Johnson was a thickset man about fifty, with wiry brown hair going gray, a mustache, wire-rim glasses. He was in his shirt-sleeves and a red-and-blue striped tie, with some work on his desk and a phone receiver to his ear.

At first he smiled, just hearing the door open, not looking at Crane, assuming it was his secretary or someone with something important his secretary had sent on in; but the smile was momentary, turning to confusion on seeing someone he didn’t know barge in, turning to irritation that would’ve turned to anger if Crane hadn’t slammed a fist on the man’s desk, upsetting papers, spilling a half a cup of coffee, rattling the desk itself, turning Johnson’s expression to one of fear.

“Hang up the fucking phone,” Crane said.

Johnson said, “Excuse me,” into the receiver, softly, hung up.

The secretary was behind Crane, having come in on his heels, and Johnson motioned to her to leave and she did.

“Who are you?” Johnson said.

“Crane.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I think so.”

“Well it doesn’t.”

“How about Anne Boone? Does that mean anything?” He then listed the other “suicides”: Woll, Meyer, Price, Mary Beth.

Johnson said, “I know those names. All of them worked for us, except Mrs. Boone. And Mrs. Boone’s husband is in our employ.”

“I know all about Patrick being in your employ. And I know all about what you people have been up to. Everything from dumping hazardous wastes in household dumps to unsafe working conditions at the plant; I know about your arson, I know about your phony suicides, which is to say murder.”

Johnson said nothing. He was looking Crane over, nervously, possibly wondering if Crane had a gun.

Crane pointed a finger at him. “I know. I know all about everything. Burning Boone’s book won’t stop a goddamn thing. I’m going to have your corporate asses. I’m taking what I have to the Hazardous Waste Strike Force, and to the media and...”

The door opened behind him. Two armed security guards, one of them a woman, came in.

“Hold him!” Johnson shouted. He was standing behind the desk, now, shaking, furious, not quite over being afraid. “Hold him while I call the police.”

Patrick came in the room. He looked briefly dismayed, then was all business.

“Walt,” he said. “Let me have a word with you.”

The guards escorted Crane into the outer office. They stood. He sat. Voices within Johnson’s office argued.

A few minutes later Patrick came back out.

“Do you have a car here?” Patrick asked Crane.

“No,” Crane said.

“I’ll drive you.”

“What about the police?”

“I’ve convinced Mr. Johnson not to bring them in. Next time, don’t expect me to bail you out, Crane.”

“What would I do without you.”

“Are you going to cause any more trouble?”