Michael Guillebeau - MAD Librarian - You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Library

“What did you hope to find out?”

“Find out where the money’s coming from to pay for all those giant Lego blocks down at her obsolete library. Know the city didn’t authorize it.”

He looked at Serenity and she spat, “Donations.”

“You mean like when you and the mystery writers had a Noir @ the Bar event to raise money for the library?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“You said that was the best event you ever had. Raised almost five hundred dollars for the library.”

Serenity didn’t say anything.

Bentley said, “Takes a lot of five-hundred-dollar-bills for that expansion.”

“I explained it to you. Special projects,” she said. The two men looked at her and didn’t say a word. After a long beat, she added, “Lots of special projects.” After another long moment she added, “Generous donors.”

“You don’t seriously—”

Joe interrupted. “Councilman, let me ask you about money. Mr. Kendall was a former senior agent for the FBI—and a big gun in the forensic accounting world. I doubt if he came cheap. Did you pay him personally?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. You’re just down here to harass me to protect your wife’s little government fiefdom.”

Joe gave Bentley his cop stare, the one that says he’s trying to decide whether to kill someone and eat them like the deer on the magazine. Bentley squirmed.

“Dr. Bentley, what exactly did Steve tell you?”

“Nothing. I told him he was harassing me and I wouldn’t talk without my lawyer. He smiled and told me he’d be back, and I’m about to tell you the same—”

“Before you finish that sentence, Dr. Bentley, you should know that Mr. Kendall was killed a short time ago. This is a murder investigation. Do you want to continue the conversation down at the station with your lawyer?”

Bentley turned white. “What? Murder? Don’t blame me. Must have been something to do with one of his old cases.”

“I honestly don’t know and—at this point—I don’t want to talk about what I do know,” said Joe. “Can I just ask you some questions now?”

“Well, of course. I always support our police.”

“Always. Back to my question: who paid Mr. Kendall?”

“I did.”

“Out of your personal money?”

“Of course not. City money. The library’s budget, if I find enough there.”

“And what did Kendall say when you asked about the library?”

“Not much. I told him I was interested in where the mystery money was coming from. He said he might be interested in that, too.”

Joe took his pad out of his jacket pocket and wrote something on it.

Bentley said, “Detective Hammer, I’ve been more than cooperative with you. What can you tell me about the killing?”

Joe thought about what would be public information soon enough.

“He was stabbed in the library.”

Bentley turned white again and shook his finger at Serenity.

“It’s that librarian,” he said. “Detective, the last time I was in the library, your wife threatened to stick something in me.”

“Did not,” she said. Joe was looking at her. “Well, it was a joke. Doo—one of us gave him a cattle thermometer.”

Joe turned to Bentley. “Why would they offer you a cattle thermometer?”

“It was a threat,” said Bentley. “They were threatening to… to… well, you know. They threatened me, and now my representative has been murdered.”

Joe kept looking at Bentley.

“Dr. Bentley, the last time she was in here, did you threaten to take my wife’s temperature, with your own instrument?”

Bentley said, “She had it coming.”

Joe slowly picked up the pad, flipped it closed and put it in his pocket while he kept his stare on Bentley.

“I believe we’re done here.”

Then he leaned on the desk.

“Dr. Bentley, I don’t take it real well when anyone threatens to stick anything into my wife.”

THE MAD WAS TOO BUSY NOW, twenty-four hours a day, for Serenity, Doom and Joy to conduct a staff meeting without interruption. Even the restaurants and bars close by were constantly packed with overflow from the round-the-clock mission and party of the MAD.

So, they met at Buffalo Bill’s a few miles away. It was supposed to be a franchise neighborhood grill like Applebee’s or Ruby Tuesday, except with a western theme. But the owner of the Maddington franchise didn’t give a shit if anybody other than his barfly friends ever came in, and he managed the place accordingly. “Managing” consisted of not unlocking the doors half the time or cleaning the place ever.

Which made it a perfect place for the librarians to meet.

Serenity knocked on the darkened door and got no response. Then she pounded harder ’til she heard, “Hold your damned horses, cowboy.” She waited a few more minutes until the door cracked open.

“We’re closed, asshole—oh, Serenity. Didn’t see it was you.”

The door opened wider.

“Hey, Jerry.”

“Where’s that overgrown Nazi you’ve usually got at your back?”

“Joe’s watching the Braves with Rick. And he’s no Nazi.”

“Member of the police Gestapo. Only reason I let you in here is I’m afraid he might shoot me.”

“And he’s the only sane one who’ll listen to your stories of how the political machine and the flying saucers exiled you here.”

“It’s the truth, and you and he know it. I was the best city councilman Maddington ever saw until I went up against them. They bribed me with enough money to buy this place, told me as long as I never sobered up enough to stick my nose back into civic affairs— ha ! Now that’s a crazy term for you—I could stay alive.” He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “Not sure that letting the town librarian in won’t violate my parole.”

Joy appeared behind Serenity. “I’ll vouch for her.”

Jerry beamed at her. “Hey, wondered where you’ve been. Haven’t seen you lately.”

Joy pushed the door open all the way and pointed a finger at Serenity. “She’s keeping me too busy. Tell the Association of Obsolete Boys and Girls in the back that I sent my regrets, and clear out a table in the front for Serenity and me.”

Serenity followed her in. A couple of faces peered out from the perennial twilight of the back room. Joy flipped a light switch and flooded the dirty dining room in the front with lights.

Jerry blinked. “Jesus F., Joy. Turn all the lights on and people will come in and demand service.”

She snorted. “What’d you say the motto for the Obsolete Boys and Girls was? ‘Anybody desperate enough to be here deserves to be here.’ Wouldn’t worry about anybody respectable falling in here.”

“I won’t.” He reached to lock the door.

“Leave that open,” said Joy. “In a couple of minutes, a beautiful young woman’s going to walk through that door. Don’t stop her, and don’t stare. Bring us a bottle of rum—unopened—and three glasses—preferably washed. And a pile of wings. I know you eat them yourself so I can trust them.”

“Who’s paying for all this?”

Joy nodded at Serenity. “She is. Make the receipt look like it’s books. Maybe Island Happiness by Alfred P. Myers, and How to Cross the Road by Chicken Little.”

“Bossy woman.”

“You got it.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Like I said about bossy women.”

Joy picked up a rag from one table and wiped the dust off a booth with a framed picture of William Bonney before she motioned Serenity in.

“Sure we want a booth with a baby-faced killer?” Serenity said.

Joy looked at the picture of a boy with dead eyes and a gun dangling from his hip. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Then she added. “And don’t let Joe find out.”