Overload

On the parking lot, Nancy steered the girl toward the Mercedes. But as the passenger door was unlocked and opened she seemed to come alert.

"I can’t Oh, I can't! I have to get back to the house." Her voice was nervously high-pitched, the trembling, which had stopped as they emerged from the supermarket, began again. She looked at Nancy wildly. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend. Look, there's a bar around the block; I saw it on the way.

Why don't we go there, have a drink? You look as if you need one."I tell you I can't!"

"Yes you can, and you will," Nancy said. "Because if you don't, I'm going to phone your friend Davey Birdsong this afternoon and tell him . . ."

She had no idea how she would have finished the sentence but its effect was electric. The girl got into the car without further protest. Nancy shut the door alongside her, then went around to the driver's side.

It took only a few minutes to drive to the bar and there was parking space outside. They left the car and went in. The interior was dark and smelled of mildew.

"Christ!" Nancy said. "We need a seeing-eye dog." She groped her way to a corner table, away from the few other people already drinking. Ile girl followed.

As they sat down, Nancy said, "I have to call you something. What?"

"Yvette."

A waiter appeared and Yvette ordered a beer, Nancy a daiquiri. They were silent until the drinks came.

This time the girl spoke first. "You still haven't told me who you are.,, there seemed no reason to conceal the truth. "My name is Nancy Molineaux. I'm a newspaper reporter."

Twice before, Yvette had exhibited shock, but this time the effect was even greater. Her mouth fell open, the drink slipped in her hand and, if Nancy had not grabbed it, would have gone the way of the Mazola.

"Take it easy," Nancy urged. "Reporters only eat people when they're hungry. I'm not."

The girl whispered, having trouble with the words, "What do you want from me?"

"Some information."

Yvette moistened her lips. "Like what?"

"Like, who else lives in that house you came out of? What goes on there? Why does Davey Birdsong visit? That's for starters."

"It's none of your business."

Nancy's eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and she could see, despite the flash of spirit, that the other woman was still frightened.

She tried a random shot. "Okay, I guess I should have gone to the police in the first place and . . ."

"No!" Yvette half rose, then fell back. Suddenly she put her face in her hands and began to sob.

Nancy reached across the table. "I know you're in some kind of trouble. If you'll let me, I'll help."

Through the sobbing: "Nobody can help." A moment later, with an obvious effort of will, Yvette stood up. "I'm going now." Even in her acute distress, she possessed a certain dignity.

"Listen," Nancy said. "I'll make a deal. If you'll agree to meet me again, I won't say or do anything in the meantime."

The girl hesitated. "When?"

"Three days from now. Right here."

"Not three days." Again the mix of doubt and fear. "Maybe a week."

It would have to do. "All right. A week from today, next Wednesday -same time, same place."

With a nod of agreement, Yvette left.

Driving away, Nancy was unsure whether she had handled the situation well or badly. And what the hell was it all about? Where did Davey Birdsong and Yvette fit in? Nancy's reference to the police during her conversation with Yvette had been an offhand, impulsive remark. Yet the girl's near-hysterical reaction suggested that something illegal was going on. If so, what kind of illegality? It was all frustrating, with too many questions, too few answers-like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without the slightest notion of what the end result might be.

14

For Nancy Molineaux, another piece of the jigsaw fell into place next day. It concerned the vague, overheard rumor-which Nancy hadn't believed-that Birdsong's p&lfp was seeking financial help from the Sequoia Club.

Despite her skepticism, she had put out feelers. One produced results.

A mailroom employee of the Sequoia Club, an elderly black woman named Grace, had once asked Nancy Molineaux's help in obtaining city-subsidized housing. At the time, all it had taken was a single telephone call and use of the California Examiner's influence to get her near the top of an official waiting list. But Grace had been grateful and insisted that if she could ever return the favor, she would.

Several weeks ago Nancy called her at home and mentioned the p & lfp-Sequoia Club rumor. Would she try to discover, Nancy asked, whether there was any substance to it and, if so, whether anything had come of p & lfp's request?

A few days later she received a report: As far as Grace could learn, the rumor was untrue. She added, though, "Something like that could be secret, with not more than two or three at the top, like Prissy Pritchy (which was what the Sequoia Club staff called Roderick Pritchett) knowing about it."

Today, Grace had used her lunch hour to go to the Examiner Building and make her way to the newsroom. Nancy happened to be in. They went into a soundproof glass cubicle where they could talk. Grace, who was heavily built, overflowed a tight, brightly colored print dress and wore a floppy hat. She was carrying a string bag and reached into it.

"Found out something, Miss Molineaux. Don't know if it has to do with what you wanted, but here it is."

"It" was a copy of a Sequoia Club memo.

Grace explained: Three outward-bound envelopes, all marked Private and Confidential, had come through the mailroom. That was not unusual. What was unusual was that one of the envelopes had arrived unsealed, probably through a secretary's carelessness. Grace slipped it aside and later, when she was unobserved, read the contents. Nancy smiled, wondering bow much other mail got perused the same way.

Grace had used one of the Sequoia Club's Xerox machines to make the copy.

Nancy read the confidential memo carefully.

From: Executive Director

To: Members of Special Executive Committee

For your information, the, second donation to B's organization from the contingency fund, and agreed to at our August 22nd meeting, has now been paid.

It was initialed "R.P."

Nancy asked, "Who was the envelope addressed to?"

"Mr. Saunders. He's a board member and . . ."

"Yes, I know." Irwin Saunders, the well-known lawyer-about-town, was a Sequoia Club wheel. "How about the other two envelopes?"

"One was to Mrs. Carmichael, our chairman. The other was addressed to Mrs. Quinn."

That would be Priscilla Quinn. Nancy knew her slightly. A snob and socialite, Grace asked anxiously, "Is it what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure." Nancy read the memo again. Of course, "B" could mean Birdsong, but it might also mean other things. For example, the mayor, whose last name began with "B," beaded an organization called "Save Old Buildings," which the Sequoia Club supported actively. But in that case would a memo be "private and confidential?" Perhaps. The Sequoia Club had always been closemouthed about its money.

"Whatever you do," Grace said, "you won't let on where that came from?"

"I don't even know you," Nancy assured her. "And you've never been here."

The older woman smiled and nodded. "I need that job. Even though it don't pay much." She stood up. "Well, I'll be getting back."

"Thanks," Nancy said. "I appreciate what you did. Let me know when you need anything."

Favors for favors, she had discovered early, were part of journalism's commerce.

Returning to her desk, still wondering if the memo referred to Birdsong and p & lfp, or not, she met the city editor.

"Who was the old lady, Nancy?"

"A friend."

"You hatching a story?"

'Maybe."

"Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "Not yet."

The city editor regarded her quizzically. He was a graying veteran of newspaperdom, good at his job but, like many of his kind, he had reached the outer limits of promotion. "You're supposed to be part of a team, Nancy, and I'm the coach. I know you prefer being a loner, and you've gotten away with it because you get results. But you can push that game too far."

She shrugged. "So fire me."