Matt stood up and put out a hand. “Um,” he said. “How do you do?”
“Er, good morning,” said Carleton Nairna little taken aback, as were most people, by just how much of Matt there was.
Matt had heard of Carleton Nairn. Everyone in the city had heard of Carleton Nairn. The call-in radio shows had devoted time to Carleton Nairn, and the Tribune was in a proper snit about Carleton Nairn. Carleton Nairn once held a position with the city before taking a court-ordered sabbatical for embezzling. After his release, he cooled his heels in a consulting job designed for heel-cooling. His old friends had been seeking to get him on the city payroll again in some position insignificant enough to escape notice. But Carleton Nairn wasn’t cool enough yet. A spot in Streets and San brought forth editorials demanding why he hadn’t stayed in prison at least long enough for people to count how much he’d stolen. So, seeking a spot even less significant, his friends had apparently deposited him in Matt’s cubicle.
Very little of this concerned Matt. He suspected a number of his superiors had done less time for more money. If anything, it made him feel a little sorry for Carleton Nairn, since anyone with such a public flaw was going to be at a disadvantage dealing with Walter Prince. But it did make him study his new co-worker with some interest.
The Tribune photographers had flattered Carleton Nairn, or the editors had dug way back in the archives for pictures. Carleton Nairn was a chinless specimen with bulging eyes and tentative sideburns that did not begin tom make up for the polished gap in his hairline.
The smile, though, was hearty and professional. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Benz,” he said, putting another hand up so as to have Matt’s hand in both of his, as if those fingers were precious to him.
For one moment, Matt wondered if Nairn would mention short stories. Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine had accidentally purchased some of his fiction, moving him from local to national obscurity.
“I read that report you put together on the Pedestrian Underpass Ordinance. Great. Great stuff.”
“Thank you,” said Matt, cancelling a sigh. “Yes. Well, uh…glad to have you here, Mr. Nairn.”
“Carleton,” his apprentice corrected him, still cherishing the handshake.
“Yes.” Matt came around the desk as an excuse to lever his hand free. “Er, they did tell us we’d get more staffing in due course.”
Nairn chuckled appreciation. “Yes, and due course is always years away. Like when your parents said ‘In a while, dear’.”
Matt chuckled back at Carleton Nairn. “Well, uh, um. I, ah, well, you’ll want to see your cubicle.”
“Yes, indeed.” Carleton Nairn nodded. “Enough chitchat, get to work, right?”
“Oh, I didn’t….” Carleton Nairn had already turned for the door, and in the time it took him to look back, Matt realized he might have been making a joke. So, with a semi-hearty “Heh heh”, Matt followed his new subordinate outside, fumbling in one pocket for the key.
The departures at Down had left three cubicles locked and unloved: Matt’s former cell, the one Nelson Ryan had abandoned after learning he would not inherit Thaxter’s, and that of Richard Watanabe, felled by an anonymous mugger in Grant Park just in time to abolish any calm period between the death of Thaxter and the huffed farewell of Ryan.
Watanabe’s cubicle was nearest to Matt’s new domain. Matt unlocked this and looked around it. It would probably do: Watanabe’s sister had collected his things, leaving the space tidier than its occupant had ever been. Pens, pencils, and papers still littered the desktop, though.
Carleton Nairn had to ease around Matt to find standing room inside this little box. “Half a window,” he said. “Not bad.” He picked up a Bears mug that had served as a pencil holder. “That was a heartbreaker Monday night, wasn’t it?”
“Mm,” Matt agreed. It seemed to him that any second Watanabe would still waltz in, explaining that he was a little late because he’d had to attend his aunt’s cat’s funeral.
Nairn set the mug back down and moved over to give the chair an experimental spin. “So what should I start in on?”
Matt’s eyes were on the desk. Watanabe’s latest heartthrob had given him that pen; his sister had rejected it with contempt. There was a wire loop from the end, from which hung a swing and a red pompom teddy bear that bounced back and forth when the pen was moved.
“You’ll need supplies,” he murmured. “Paper and…stuff.” His hand went down to the desk in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. “Did you meet Maryann?”
“Nom” said Nairn, looking up. “Only you, so far. I think Mr. Prince called the woman at that desk out front Maryann.”
Walter Prince had made an effort for Carleton Nairn then; the head of Down usually called Maryann “You.” Nodding, Matt slid his fingers to the red pompom teddy bear. It didn’t mean much and probably hadn’t meant much at the time: Watanabe had a new fiancée every week. But you never could tell.
“Oh, well, um, you need to know Maryann,” he said, turning at the same time he lifted the pen, so Nairn might miss him sliding it into his pocket. “She really runs the place, you know: she’s in charge of paper clips.”
He led a chuckling Carleton Nairn along the row of cubicles. Holly was talking to Maryann, but pulled back as Matt arrived, to let him know she was still affronted. Like Maryann, though, she was alive to the interesting possibilities of strangers, and didn’t withdraw too far.
Matt liked both Maryann and Holly. They were friendly, competent, and fun to be around, and he wondered occasionally if he should compliment them on their work, since Walter Prince never would. He always stopped short of actually saying anything; it seemed presumptuous.
“This is Carleton Nairn,” he said, trying to face Maryann and Holly equally while he told them the one thing they already knew. They smiled at Nairn, and Matt added, “He’s going to be working here, in Richard’s space. Mr…Carleton, this is Maryann Hoxey, our, er, executive secretary, and Holly…MacTaggart.” He never knew whether to mention the middle initial.
Nairn’s pale eyes moved over both women and then back to Matt. Matt saw something stir behind those blinking eyelids, and knew by the reaction of his stomach that he was being summed up, and pretty accurately.
“I’ve heard of you, Ms. MacTaggart,” Nairn said, holding out both his hands. “I read that report you did on Ventilation. A breath of fresh air.”
Holly took this the way a horse takes sugar She also took Nairn’s hands and gave him a frank, open smile, so open Matt could have counted her fillings.
“Oh, we’ve met,” she said. “I’d see you at grandpa’s, oh, hundreds of times. Did Matt show you all the files?”
“Not yet,” replied the new kid on the block. He grinned. “Mr. Benz started me right at the top by introducing me to yourself and to Ms. Hoxey.”
“Oh, let ne.” Holly pulled on his hands to lead him away. She glanced back over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t mind, would….”
Her eyes, already not the least conspicuous feature of her face, widened. “Why do you have a teddy bear on your lapel?”
Matt glanced down. He thought he had put Watanabe’s pen in his shirt pocket, but had instead thrust it through the buttonhole on that lapel. He opened his mouth to explain, and then remembered that look in Nairn’s eyes. His backbone stiffened.
“Didn’t you see them at that meeting in October? They’re slipping novelty pens into the spots for boutonnieres. A touch of whimsy helps get through all the speeches.”
Holly’s eyebrows snapped down and she turned away. Matt recalled, a little late, that she had expected to be sent as Down’s representative to the October meeting, only to be disappointed by Walter Prince. But Matt could hardly call her back and apologize.
“You’ll need to know all these shelves, Mr. Nairn,” she said.
“Carleton,” he corrected.
“Didn’t you used to be in Streets once?” she said, pulling him into the mass of cabinets. “I bet you never got parking ticket.”
“No,” Nairn told her. “I could never get a parking place.”
Holly giggled. Maryann looked up to Matt and shrugged. Matt shrugged back and turned for his cubicle. He had to finish that list of projects he was working on. That came in handy whenever Walter Prince barged in and demanded, “Benz, what in hell are you doing?”
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