was shorter than me and thin, with a balding head and a prominent Adam's apple and very dark skin. He was wearing a plaid short-sleeved shirt and a burgundy knit tie. A little nameplate on the counter said MR. ALBERT PARKS.
I said, "Do you have the Gazette on microfiche?" I could have gone by the newspaper offices, but newspaper people would ask questions.
"Yes, sir. We do." He stopped stacking books and came over to the counter.
I told him the year I wanted, and asked if he had it.
Mr. Parks grinned broadly, pleased to be able to help. "I mink we might. Let me run in the back and see."
He disappeared between the stacks and returned with a cardboard box and had me follow to an ancient microfiche unit on the other side of the card catalogs. He pulled out one of the spools and threaded it into the machine. "There are twenty-four spools in this box, two spools for each month of the year. I put in January. Do you know how to work the machine?"
"If the film gets stuck, please don't force the little crank. These kids from the school use this thing and always tear the film."
"I'll be careful."
Mr. Parks frowned down into the little box and fingered through the spools.
I said, "What's wrong?"
"Looks like we have a month missing." He frowned harder, then arched his eyebrows and looked up at me. "May's gone. Did you need May?"
"I don't think so."
"Maybe I put it in a different year."
"I don't think I'll need it."
He nodded thoughtfully, told me to call him if I needed any help with the little crank, then went back to his book cart. When he was gone I took the January spool out of the microfiche and dug around in the box until I found the two July spools. I threaded in the first and skimmed through until I reached the Gazette dated 9 July. The ninth was a Tuesday and had no birth announcements. I searched through the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, which was the following Friday. Friday's paper had three birth announcements, two boys and twin girls. The boys were born to Charles amp; Louise Fontenot and William amp; Edna Lemoine, the twin girls to Murray amp; Charla Smith. As I was writing their names on a yellow legal pad, Mr. Parks strolled by. "Are you finding everything you need?"
"Yes," I said. "Thank you."
He nodded and strolled away.
I cranked the little spool back to the beginning of July and copied the birth announcements published at the end of every week, and then I did the same for June and August. When I was working through August, Mr. Parks pushed the book can next to me and made a big deal out of straightening shelves and trying to pretend that he wasn't interested in what I was doing. I glanced up and caught him peeking over my shoulder. "Yes?"
Mr. Parks said, "Heh heh," then pushed the cart away. Embarrassed. They get bored in these small towns.
When I finished with August I had eighteen names. I put the little spools back into their box, turned off the microfiche, and returned the box to Mr. Parks. He said, "That didn't take very long."
"Efficiency. Efficiency and focus are the keys to success."
"I hear that."
I said, "Is there a phone book?"
"On the reference table next to the card catalog."
I went over to the reference table and looked in the phone book for the names I had copied. I was on the fourth name when Mr. Parks said, "Seems to me you appear to be looking for someone."
He was standing behind me again, peering over my shoulder.
I put my hand over the names. "It's rather personal."
He frowned. "Personal?"
"Private."
He peered at my hand as if he were trying to see through it. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"No," I said. "I'm from the government. Central Intelligence."
He looked offended. "No reason to be rude."
I spread my free hand.
He said, "You were copying birth announcements. Now you're looking for those names in the phone book. I think you're trying to find someone. I think you're a private detective." Great. The big-time Hollywood op gets made by the small-town librarian. He started away. "Perhaps we should call the police."
I caught his arm and made a big deal out of looking around. Making sure that the coast was clear. "Thirty-six years ago, the person I'm working for was born in this area and given up for adoption. She has now contracted leukemia and