Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,19

woman shuffled past, her head down. “Sure, I mean, anybody who goes by can see it, if they look over.”

“Any staff?”

“Most of editorial is already here.”

“How about the production people?”

“Nobody except Rigero. I saw his truck parked in the lot.”

Simon ran his index finger over the letters, and a little of the black rubbed off.

Ron held out a battered old teddy bear. “I found this leaning against the door, like a calling card. You know, the Teddy Bear Vandal—good headline, huh?”

Simon took the flimsy stuffed animal. It was pressed in at the face, as if stepped on, and cut open in the belly, a small, ragged slit.

“The police will be over in a few minutes,” Ron said.

Simon whirled on him. “You called the police?”

“Yeah, they always check out vandalism.”

“This is just a little graffiti, probably from some bored kid. Get something abrasive from the janitor’s room and we’ll rub it off.”

“That’s bad business, that’s what it is.” The voice came with a wooden cane shaking between their heads. Simon and Ron leaned out of the way as Erasmus Hall jabbed it toward the door. “It’s a sign,” he said, “repent before it’s too late.” He held out a tract. Simon took one from his tremoring hand and then stood in front of the word until it could be washed away.

“Mr. Howe, can I talk to you a minute?”

Simon looked up from his desk and saw his recently hired pressroom man standing over him. He smelled of after-shave, some strong metallic scent. “Sure.” Simon scanned the newsroom. “We could go in the conference room, that would be private.”

“I don’t need private. This is okay.”

Simon gestured to the seat across his desk, then leaned over it. “The writing on the door—I guess you saw it.”

“Yeah, there was kind of a crowd out there when I pulled in, so I took a look.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “We scrubbed it off as soon as I got in.”

“You’re sorry?”

“That you had to see it.”

Rigero shrugged, his shoulders sticking up longer than usual, like a child who hasn’t quite mastered the gesture. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me. Nobody knows what I was in for except you,” he said, his voice a little lower, “and you didn’t tell anybody, did you, Mr. Howe, because that would be like invading my privacy, wouldn’t it?”

He’d told Amy, but wives didn’t count. Everyone presumed you shared secrets with your spouse. “Of course I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Then nobody else would know.”

Simon nodded. “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I was making up the For Sale page and saw your ad for the piano.”

“You play?” The question popped out of Simon with more surprise in his voice than was appropriate. “I mean, you didn’t mention that when we talked about your hobbies at the interview.”

“It’s not for me. I got a sister up in Brunswick has three kids. I thought I’d refinish it for her, like a gift. She used to play when we were growing up. I figure she could teach her kids.”

“That’s a nice idea.”

“She stuck by me when I was in, my sister did. The rest of the family acted like I died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But the piano, it’s been used pretty hard. My son used to play with his feet. And it hasn’t been tuned in years.”

“That’s okay, I’m used to working with wood, and I’ll get it tuned. But I was wondering, the ad said a hundred dollars, would you take seventy-five? That’s all I got.”

Haggling over the price of her piano—Amy wouldn’t like that. He would have to say he got the full amount and chip in the other twenty-five himself. “Sure,” Simon said. How could he ask for more than all a person had?

“I got my truck, I could come around after work and pick it up.”

“It’s pretty heavy.”

Rigero flexed his arms a little. “I used to be a mover, and I have a lift on my truck. I can handle it.” He stood up and put out his hand to seal the deal.

“You know,” Simon said as they shook, “maybe we better go over now before my wife gets home. She isn’t thrilled we’re getting rid of this. She might chase you away,” he said, laughing just a little.

“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” Rigero said and headed for the pressroom.

Simon grabbed his jacket and turned toward the front door. He had never noticed before, the self-segregation of the editorial and press staffs in their entrances and