guffaws from some of the others, but Koller didn’t react.
“What do you think, Rebecca?” he asked.
Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on her test booklet.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Take a look,” Koller said. “You’re the smartest one in this class-the only one whose opinion I would trust. The only one worth saving when the flood comes. I think it’s simply beautiful. How about you?”
Rebecca glanced up at the phone as if half expecting something gross.
“It’s a very nice lamp,” she managed.
What it is
, Koller was thinking,
is a job for Mr. Greene
-buckets of money for work he would happily do for free.
Last bell sounded, and Koller was out the door without even looking back at his class.
As soon as he was back at his apartment, he would decode the message encrypted within the picture of the lamp. Then, once he had all the facts, he would decide if $990,000 was enough for the job or whether $1,500,000-a million five-would be more appropriate.
Later that day, John Sykes, the principal of Woodrow Wilson High, called to say that the feedback from his chemistry classes was excellent, especially F block, the last period. Could Greene possibly come in and substitute again tomorrow?
CHAPTER 4
The interior of the Helping Hands Mobile Medical Unit was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Every inch of available space inside the 1996 Fleetwood RV was being used for something-notices, storage, medical equipment, office machines-creating a quaint, homespun feel, which was enhanced by the white honeycomb window shades, beige textured carpet, and incandescent accent lighting. The steamy windows and the grizzled, hardened faces of the three men at the center fold-out table, each in a different posture, each clutching a mug of coffee, completed the masterpiece.
It was a Wednesday, and at this stop-the muddy lot of Jasper Yeo’s Dependable Used Autos-that meant Nick would be teaching his weekly class on obtaining VA benefits for post-traumatic stress disorder. Outside, the heavy rain was continuing unabated, pelting the roof of the clinic, and scrubbing the air clean after what had been an unseasonably warm day. The RV was crowded, so the seven men and one woman seeking treatment were using the covered bus stop at the corner as their waiting room. The inconvenience bothered them little. Most of them were near the bottom of life’s totem pole, and quite used to being put on hold.
Inside the RV, the stakes in the tiny classroom were high. Benefit money each of the three men needed to survive had been denied by a VA review board. In fact, Nick’s credential to run the course he had started was a protracted, ultimately victorious battle for his own benefits. It was a struggle that had begun with a rejection by the antichrist of VA claim evaluators, Phillip MacCandliss, and ended with a high-level review board reversing the decision. Not long after that, possibly because of his heavy-handed opposition to Nick’s petition, MacCandliss was passed over for promotion.
War.
“Sorry to keep questioning you, Doc,” Eddie Thompson said. “It’s just that this is my third go at trying to get my benefit pay. I’m running out of steam and I’ve already run out of cash.”
Nick set his hand on the shoulder of the bullnecked ex-infantryman, whom he knew had witnessed inconceivable brutality-many of the victims, his friends.
“I know, Eddie,” he said, not even attempting to cull the huskiness from his voice. “I know.”
Given the flashback during the ride into D.C., it wasn’t a great night for him to be doing the class. In spite of himself, Nick felt his concentration begin to slip. He glanced up past Eddie at the corkboard wall, festooned with job notices, lists of AA and NA meetings, nightly shelter possibilities, and other hints for survival on the streets. At the center of the announcements was the four-year-old poster requesting any information on the disappearance of Umberto Vasquez. The
“What do you think, Rebecca?” he asked.
Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on her test booklet.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Take a look,” Koller said. “You’re the smartest one in this class-the only one whose opinion I would trust. The only one worth saving when the flood comes. I think it’s simply beautiful. How about you?”
Rebecca glanced up at the phone as if half expecting something gross.
“It’s a very nice lamp,” she managed.
What it is
, Koller was thinking,
is a job for Mr. Greene
-buckets of money for work he would happily do for free.
Last bell sounded, and Koller was out the door without even looking back at his class.
As soon as he was back at his apartment, he would decode the message encrypted within the picture of the lamp. Then, once he had all the facts, he would decide if $990,000 was enough for the job or whether $1,500,000-a million five-would be more appropriate.
Later that day, John Sykes, the principal of Woodrow Wilson High, called to say that the feedback from his chemistry classes was excellent, especially F block, the last period. Could Greene possibly come in and substitute again tomorrow?
CHAPTER 4
The interior of the Helping Hands Mobile Medical Unit was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Every inch of available space inside the 1996 Fleetwood RV was being used for something-notices, storage, medical equipment, office machines-creating a quaint, homespun feel, which was enhanced by the white honeycomb window shades, beige textured carpet, and incandescent accent lighting. The steamy windows and the grizzled, hardened faces of the three men at the center fold-out table, each in a different posture, each clutching a mug of coffee, completed the masterpiece.
It was a Wednesday, and at this stop-the muddy lot of Jasper Yeo’s Dependable Used Autos-that meant Nick would be teaching his weekly class on obtaining VA benefits for post-traumatic stress disorder. Outside, the heavy rain was continuing unabated, pelting the roof of the clinic, and scrubbing the air clean after what had been an unseasonably warm day. The RV was crowded, so the seven men and one woman seeking treatment were using the covered bus stop at the corner as their waiting room. The inconvenience bothered them little. Most of them were near the bottom of life’s totem pole, and quite used to being put on hold.
Inside the RV, the stakes in the tiny classroom were high. Benefit money each of the three men needed to survive had been denied by a VA review board. In fact, Nick’s credential to run the course he had started was a protracted, ultimately victorious battle for his own benefits. It was a struggle that had begun with a rejection by the antichrist of VA claim evaluators, Phillip MacCandliss, and ended with a high-level review board reversing the decision. Not long after that, possibly because of his heavy-handed opposition to Nick’s petition, MacCandliss was passed over for promotion.
War.
“Sorry to keep questioning you, Doc,” Eddie Thompson said. “It’s just that this is my third go at trying to get my benefit pay. I’m running out of steam and I’ve already run out of cash.”
Nick set his hand on the shoulder of the bullnecked ex-infantryman, whom he knew had witnessed inconceivable brutality-many of the victims, his friends.
“I know, Eddie,” he said, not even attempting to cull the huskiness from his voice. “I know.”
Given the flashback during the ride into D.C., it wasn’t a great night for him to be doing the class. In spite of himself, Nick felt his concentration begin to slip. He glanced up past Eddie at the corkboard wall, festooned with job notices, lists of AA and NA meetings, nightly shelter possibilities, and other hints for survival on the streets. At the center of the announcements was the four-year-old poster requesting any information on the disappearance of Umberto Vasquez. The
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