Harvey Porter Does Dallas Page 5

  “Sure. Go on up to the fourth floor. That’s where the administrative offices are located.”

  “Thanks, bro.” Harvey chose to use the stairs instead of the elevator. He passed the second and third floor dormitories on the way. He found D’artagnan’s office open, and the headmaster was free at the moment.

  He welcomed Harvey. “Welcome to SAS. Your paperwork is in order. Do you have the books on the reading list?”

  “Got ’em all,” said Harvey. “I’ve even started reading the one on Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Can I ask you about your name?” said Harvey.

  D’artagnan sighed wearily and rubbed his closed eyelids. “Sure. Go ahead. What would you like to know?”

  “Well, you used to be a cop, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m just thinkin’—no offense—but that doesn’t sound like a cop’s name at all.”

  “Oh. And you know all the cops?”

  “No,” Harvey admitted.

  The headmaster waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been asked that question for 25 years. The way it happened was, my mother was really into the Three Musketeers books. But my father insisted on Devin. My mother wouldn’t budge on the D’artagnan thing, so they gave me that as my last name.”

  “You mean you don’t even have the same last name as your parents?”

  “That’s right. Weird, huh? Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher and they live in Corpus Christi.”

  “It’s not so weird really,” said Harvey. “It’s kind of like you and I have something in common.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s a long story. You can read all the details in the letter Mrs. M. added to the application. Maybe we’ll talk about it some other time. But I’ve got another question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why do you call yourself ‘headmaster’ instead of ‘principal?’”

  “Well, this is an alternative school, so I thought an alternative title might be appropriate. Kind of like in England.”

  “Does the SAS have anything to do with England?”

  “No. It doesn’t. Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “I gotta admit,” Harvey answered. “I’ve got a real curious streak in me.”

  “Curious streaks can get you into trouble.”

  “Don’t I know it!” said Harvey.

  “Well,” said D’artagnan. “Let’s drop all this chit-chat and get you settled. There are empty beds in 2A. That would be on the second floor. Each bed has a large hutch at the end for your clothes and personal items. I’m sure you’ll find them roomy enough to suit you.”

  “Thanks,” said Harvey as he left the office. He went down to dorm 2A. 2B was just across the hall. Each dorm room had 20 beds, ten down each side. Harvey did the math in his head. If all the dorm rooms were like these two, then SAS couldn’t enroll more than 80 students. Small is good, he thought.

  Harvey didn’t like what he saw in 2A. He saw the three or four beds that were empty. There were several guys lying around reading comic books and Penthouse magazines.

  He went up to the third floor and figured out the landscape. Here were dorms 3A and 3B. 3B was for the girls. 3A was another dorm room for boys. I need to be on this floor, he thought. I need to be where the chicas are. There were two dormitories for the boys on the second floor, and a third on third floor. Only one for girls. “Not very good odds,” Harvey mumbled to himself.

  He went into 3A. There were several guys here too, lying around and reading comic books or Hustler magazine. It was quiet; there wasn’t much talking. Harvey could tell, by looking at the hutches at the end of the beds, that this dorm was filled. There were no beds available.

  On a bed near the door lay a long, skinny, pimply guy who looked about fifteen. He was reading an Incredible Hulk comic. Harvey sat on the empty bed next to him and said, “My name’s Harvey Porter. What’s yours?”

  “Alberto Lichtenstein,” was the answer. Lichtenstein was one of those people who had the bouncing Adam’s apple when he spoke. He sat up on the edge of his bed and shook hands with Harvey. “Pleased ta meetcha.”

  “Well ’Berto, I’m pleased to meet you too. I think I’ve got a project the two of us need to work on.”

  “What project?” Lichtenstein looked a little nervous.

  “Let me ask you a question,” said Harvey. “What would you do if you wanted to move to a different bed in this dorm room?”

  “I couldn’t. They’re all filled.”

  “Just what I thought. No freedom of choice; no options.”

  “Well, I guess you could say that.”

  Harvey stood up. “Why don’t you come with me for a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Is this the project?”

  “Exactly.” Lichtenstein stood up, but Harvey could tell how tense and nervous he was. “Oh come on,” said Harvey. “It’ll only take about five minutes and nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  Reluctantly, Alberto Lichtenstein followed Harvey into the hallway. They made their way down the stairs to dorm room 2A, where the same few guys were still lazing around. Harvey wondered briefly why nobody was reading a book from the reading list.

  Harvey put his arm around Lichtenstein’s shoulders. “Look at this. Four empty beds.”

  “So?”

  “Choices, ’Berto, choices. On third floor, you have no choices, no options. In other words, no freedom.”

  “But I don’t want to move down here. I want to stay where I am.”

  Harvey took him to the end of the south row, where there were three unoccupied beds. They could talk in private. Harvey gripped Alberto’s left shoulder with his right hand. “Let me explain something. I’m not really askin’ you. I’m tellin’ you to look over the four empty beds and decide which one you like best.”

  Lichtenstein looked at Harvey’s swarthy complexion, the feral dark eyes, and the ragged forehead scar. He began to stutter: “How, h-h-how did you get that sc-scar of yours?”

  “Oh God, ’Berto, if you had any idea how often I get this question. I’ll make it short and sweet. I got it in a fight with Carlos Villanueva. He cut me with his blade, so I beat the shit out of him. I just left him there in the street, all doubled up, he couldn’t even stand up.”

  Lichtenstein’s eyes suddenly were very, very wide. “C-c-carlos Vil-Vilanueva? You beat him up?”

  “Yeah, but let’s move on. This isn’t gettin’ us anywhere. So tell me which of the four beds looks best to you?”

  “I g-guess that one over th-there.”

  Harvey released his grip on Lichtenstein’s shoulder. “Looks like a good choice to me. Lots of windows around it.”

  “Wh-when do you want me to m-move my stuff?”

  Harvey tousled ’Berto’s hair in an act of affection. “I think right now would work out just fine. Then you can go back to your comic book.”

  “Okay, okay, just give me a few minutes.”

  “Absolutely. Take the time you need. You know, ’Berto, you’ve made a really good choice here.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “And one more thing. This change may have a pay-off for you. Maybe even a big one.”

  “What’s that?” Lichtenstein asked. He was still very nervous.

  Harvey said, “You look like one of those kids who gets hosed a lot. Am I right?”

  The scrawny Lichtenstein confirmed it by nodding his head several time. “Yeah, that’s one of the reasons I’m here, instead of in regular school. I got teased so much and beaten up so many times.”

  “That’s just what I thought.” Harvey put his arm around the pimply boy’s shoulders. “That’s not gonna happen here.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What makes me say it is this: We’re going to let it be known throughout the school that you and I are buddies. Anybody gives you any shit, you tell them they’re gonna have to deal with me.”


  ’Berto smiled. “Gee thanks, Harvey.”

  “No problem. You did me a favor, so I’m giving you one. Any asshole gives you any shit, and I mean anyone, you send them straight to me.”

  Now Lichtenstein had a broad smile. “Gee thanks, Harvey.”

  “No problem. We have to watch out for each other. Know what I mean?”

  “Gee thanks, Harvey.”

  When Harvey unpacked his things and moved them into the hutch on 3A, a stocky white bread in a nearby bed asked him, “What the hell are you doin?”

  “What’s it look like? I’m movin’ in.”

  “But this is Lichtenstein’s bed.”

  “It used to be. He decided he liked it better down on 2A.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “Yeah, he did. It’s all about choices.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Later,” said Harvey, now that all his stuff was safely tucked away in the hutch.

  Harvey couldn’t resist the urge to explore. He went up to the fifth floor where all the classrooms were located. They had shiny, buffed tile floors, brand new desks, and fresh paint on all the walls. Harvey knew he was going to like it here. He could feel it in his bones.

  He went to the end of the corridor where he found an old fashioned, brown wooden door. Completely locked. This is the stairway to the sixth floor, he realized. The place where the coward Oswald took out President Kennedy. There was a bright red sign screwed onto the door:

  ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE AT ANY TIME

  Harvey read the sign twice, then looked the door over one more time. The lock was as old-fashioned as the rest of the door. It gave him an idea.

  He made his way clear down to the first-floor lounge again. He found Weber Weeble, with the big magnifying glass, trying to read some classified ads in the newspaper. He looked up. “Is there something I can do for you, young man?

  “Well maybe so. I was wonderin’ if I could borrow a paper clip.”

  “I don’t know why not,” Weeble answered. He fished around in his desk organizer and handed Harvey a paper clip. But it was small. “If it’s not too much trouble,” Harvey asked, “do you think you could find me a bigger one?”

  Weeble sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess so.” he used the magnifier this time and brought forth a very large shiny silver one. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect,” thanked Harvey. He put it in his jeans pocket. As he left, he said to Weeble, “Thanks a lot, bro.”

  Weeble was puzzled. Why does this kid call me bro? But it was too late to ask; Harvey was already on the staircase, heading upstairs.

  9. CARMELITA VILLANUEVA & OBOE MEEL

  The next morning, Harvey saw a beautiful girl. She was wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe and toweling her long black hair. She didn’t notice Harvey as she made her way from the girls’ washroom to dorm 3B.

  Wow, thought Harvey. What a chica!

  He saw her in his first class, social studies, at a front row desk. He nudged the guy in the nearest desk, whose name turned out to be Victor Vice. “Who’s the chica?”

  “That’s Carmelita Villanueva. She’s a babe, huh?”

  “You can say that again,” Harvey said. But he thought to himself, Villanueva? Could she be a relative of Carlos? Nah, too farfetched. Villanueva was a common Hispanic name all over the city.

  So Victor said it again.

  Harvey had to put his thoughts on hold, as the teacher called the class to order and introduced herself. “My name is Roberta Bertagnolli,” she told the class. “You may call me Mrs. Bert. And this is sociology. Not social studies, that’s for regular schools. Sociology.”

  Mrs. Bert was a plain looking middle-aged woman, but she had a toughness about her. Harvey liked that. One tough momma, he thought.

  Then Mrs. Bert outlined the course for them: “Our one and only textbook is the G. Gordon Liddy book. You need to keep up on your reading, but don’t worry; none of our books is anything like what you’d be assigned in a regular school setting. All of our books are high-interest books, the kind of material that’s outside the mainstream. You will enjoy all the books on our entire reading list; trust me on this.”

  Harvey remembered the Liddy book. It was something like 100 ways to disable without killing. Or was it 1,000?

  The teacher continued, “We all know that killing is sometimes necessary. It even says so in the Bible. What we want to learn here are what those occasions are, how they can be avoided, and which can be avoided. If you have violence in your background, you will learn how to channel it in ways that will help society and generate affection from the police.”

  Harvey looked at Carmelita. How gorgeous she is. She was filing her nails while listening quietly.

  Mrs. Bert gave them a situation to respond to. “Let’s say you see a man walking down the street holding a handgun. What would you do?”

  Harvey raised his hand immediately.

  “And your name is.…?” asked Mrs. Bert.

  “Harvey Porter.”

  “Okay, Harvey, what would you do if you encountered a man like I’ve just described.

  “I’d waste him, with my nine millimeter. It would only take one shot.”

  “Now you see, class? This is where we need to start learning our differences. Sometimes killing is necessary, but the man I described was only holding a gun. Liddy’s book will acquaint us with our options. We want the affection of the police, not their anger.”

  Harvey raised his hand again. Mrs. Bert called on him. “Mrs. Bert, you mean the guy is just carrying the gun, like sort of holding it by his leg?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Okay, but what if he’s pointing the gun at somebody?”

  “Then you’d have to waste him,” said Mrs. Bert.

  After class, Harvey tried to follow Carmelita, but she turned into a class Harvey wasn’t taking. He soon found out that Sociology was the only class they shared. Damn.

  Most of the afternoons were free time, when the students could leave the building for an hour or two. Bus lines ran right past the building. Students were encouraged to use their free time to keep up on their reading, but nobody held a whip over them. There weren’t any study halls either.

  He had lunch in the cafeteria. You could get burritos, doritos, Big Macs, donuts, enchiladas, potato chips, fries, cookies, and chocolate sundaes. And plenty of Dr. Pepper, Coke, and other soft drinks. Harvey kept liking the SAS more and more.

  He tried to sit at the table where Carmeilta was eating, but that table was completely filled. Her popularity was obvious.

  After lunch, he wandered across the street to Dealey plaza, where there was sculpture, flower gardens, and several park benches. Most of the benches were occupied by people who worked in downtown offices eating their lunches. Harvey had the Liddy book with him, just in case he felt like sitting in the sun and reading.

  The only space available (sort of) was occupied by a huge fat man wearing bib overalls and triple-E width black high-top old fashioned Converse basketball shoes. The laces weren’t tied—they were loose. Harvey figured the blimp couldn’t tie his shoes even if he wanted to.

  But he wanted to sit, and the only space available was the small half of the porkbelly’s bench. He sat down quietly. At least the pork didn’t smell bad. But he had his hands locked over his enormous belly and his eyes were closed. He made a humming sound like “hmmmmmmmmm.”

  It didn’t bother Harvey. He was trying to think of strategies to get close to Carmelita Villanueva. I need to make her mine, he thought. He looked to his right at the angled street which fronted the old school book depository. There was a red X painted on the pavement. That must be the spot where President Kennedy was shot, he thought. It had to be, or else why else would there be a red X painted there?

  Finally the fat man opened his eyes and turned his head (as far as he could) in Harvey’s direction. “Young man, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m a student at the new
alternative school and I thought it might be nice to soak up a little Dealey Plaza sun.”

  “It is nice. Extremely nice. I like to think of it as basking. Sitting in the warm sun with my mind open and cleared of thoughts. Like an artist’s blank canvas. I make it a point to do as much basking as I can.”

  Now the blimp was starting to sound weird. “My name’s Harvey Porter,” he said, “what’s yours?”

  “My name is Oboe Meel. Some call me Professor Meel. I don’t care for it.”

  “Do you do all your baskin’ in Dealey Plaza?”

  “I do now, ever since I got involved with the new alternative school across the street.”

  “You mean you’re one of my teachers?” asked Harvey. He couldn’t help looking at Oboe Meel’s enormous girth and bib overalls. He didn’t even have a tee shirt on underneath.

  “No, I’m not a classroom teacher, Harvey, I’m the academic dean.”

  Harvey could barely believe what he was hearing. This guy was the school’s academic dean? Him?

  “Do you have an office on the fourth floor, then?”

  “I think so. I’ve been told I do. I’ve never seen it.”

  “You’ve never seen your own office?” Harvey was amazed.

  “No.” answered Oboe. His eyes were closed again.

  “How’s come?”

  Oboe answered, but without opening his eyes. “It has been my experience that offices create work. This is an alternative school, so I don’t expect to have much work to do. Basking is my alternative.”

  “So you like to just bask and bask?”

  “Yes. I bask. Tell me Harvey Porter, what are your issues?”

  “Right now I’m trying to learn about my family history. I never knew my parents and still don’t know who they are.”

  “That’s a very worthwhile project,” said Oboe. “How do you proceed with this quest?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Mushrush showed me a picture of a family reunion from a long time ago. She was a half-breed; she got my attention.”

  “Is Mrs. Mushrush someone I should know?”

  “No. She’s just somebody I stayed with. She wants to know if I’m related to their family. Actually, Mrs. M. and her sister are working harder on it than me.”