Leona and I went to school with Allen Shempsky. He was an okay guy who'd worked his way up the ladder and was now a VP. And this was a new development. No one had said anything about Fred going to see Shempsky. “What'd Fred want with Allen?”
Leona shrugged. “Don't know. He was in there talking to Allen for about ten minutes. He didn't stop to say hello or anything when he came out. Fred was like that. Not the most sociable person.”
Shempsky had a small private office tucked between two other small private offices. His door was open, so I stuck my head in.
“Knock, knock,” I said.
Allen Shempsky looked at me blank-?faced for a moment, and then I saw recognition kick in. “Sorry,” he said, “my mind was someplace else. What can I do for you?”
“I'm looking for my uncle Fred. I understand he talked to you just before he disappeared.”
“Yeah. He was thinking of taking out a loan.”
“A loan? What kind of a loan?”
“Personal.”
“He say what he needed the money for?”
“No. Wanted to know what interest rates were and how long would it take. That sort of thing. Preliminary stuff. No paperwork or anything. I think he was only in here for maybe five minutes. Ten tops.”
“Did he seem upset?”
“Not that I remember. Well, not any more than usual. Fred was sort of a grumpy guy. The family ask you to look for Fred?”
“Yeah.” I stood and gave Shempsky my card. “Let me know if you think of anything significant.”
A loan. I couldn't help wondering if it was to pay off Bunchy. I didn't think Bunchy was a bookie, but I wouldn't be shocked to find he was a blackmailer.
The dry cleaner was in the middle of the strip of buildings, next to Grand Union. I knew the woman behind the counter by sight, but not by name. I brought my cloths here too, sometimes.
She remembered Fred, but not much else. He'd picked up his clothes and that was it. No conversation. They'd been busy at the time. She hadn't paid a lot of attention to Fred.
I went back to the Buick and stood there, looking around, trying to imagine what might have happened. Fred had parked in front of Grand Union, anticipating that he'd have groceries to carry. He'd laid the cleaning neatly on the backseat, then closed and locked the car. Then what? Then he'd disappeared. The mall opened to a four-?lane highway on one side. Behind the mall was an apartment complex and the neighborhood of single-?family houses where I'd searched for Fred.
The RGC office was down by the river, on the other side of Broad. It was an industrial area of warehouses and mom-?and-?pop factories. Not especially scenic. Perfect for a waste hauler.
I eased into traffic and pointed Big Blue's nose west. Ten minutes and seven lights later, I rolled down Water Street, squinting at the somber brick buildings, looking for numbers. The road was cracked and pocked with potholes. Parking lots associated with businesses were ringed by chain-?link fences. Sidewalks were empty. Windows were dark and lifeless. I didn't need to see the numbers, RGC was easy to spot. Large sign. Lots of garbage trucks parked in the lot. There were five visitor slots next to the building. They were all empty. No surprise there. It didn't exactly smell like roses outside.
I parked in one of the slots and scurried inside. The office was small. Linoleum floor, death-?pallor-?green walls, and a counter cut the room in half. There were two desks and file cabinets in the back half of the room.
A woman got up from one of the desks and stood at the counter. A plaque on the counter read MARTHA DEETER, RECEPTIONIST, and I assumed this was Martha.
“Can I help you?” Martha asked.
I introduced myself as Fred's niece and told her I was looking for Fred.
“I remember speaking to him,” she said. “He went home to get his canceled check and never returned. It never occurred to me that something might have happened to him. I just assumed he'd given up. We get a lot of people in here trying to get something for nothing.”
“Go figure.”
“Exactly. That's why I sent him home for the check. The old ones are the worst. They're all on fixed incomes. They'll say anything to hang on to a dollar.”
There was a man sitting at the second desk. He got up and moved next to Martha. “Perhaps I can be of assistance here. I'm the bookkeeper, and I'm afraid this is my problem. Truth is, this has happened before. It's the computer. We just can't get it to recognize certain customers.”
Martha tapped a finger on the counter. “It's not the computer. There are people out there who'll take advantage. People think it's okay to gyp big business.”
The man gave me a tight smile and extended his hand. “Larry Lipinski. I'll make sure the account is set straight.”