Open Writing

Buckley glanced at his watch and saw he was on time. Well, that was something he supposed. What he couldn’t figure out right then was why the boss had said to meet him here.

Normally his boss wanted to meet in his office, but his e-mail had requested that they meet in this coffee shop. Buckley couldn’t picture Mr Jones sitting here in his perfectly starched shirt and three-piece suit, but apparently something about this place made it appealing. Mr Jones was already 10 minutes late, and in the three years that Buckley had known him, Mr Jones had never been late.

Perhaps that e-mail message wasn’t quite what it seemed.

Buckley began to feel uneasy. Being inconspicuous was a way of life to him, but sitting here he felt uncomfortable in what he thought of as his ‘professional’ clothes. The place had been empty a few minutes ago. Now it was getting full enough for him to stick out like a fish driving a taxi. Many of the other clientele looked like they had never got over the sixties. He was glad now he made a habit of taking corner tables whenever he could. He loosened his tie. That didn’t help.

The doorbell tinkled again, announcing another arrival. Now, that would get on his nerves if he had to listen to it all day. A kid with a video camera slung over his shoulder walked around the room, obviously looking for someone in particular. The camera reminded Buckley of one of his favourite time-wasting games. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he let his gaze drift slowly around the room, like a camera panning a landscape.

He saw a high room with a glass front facing onto the square. There were booths along two of the walls and several small, round tables with cane chairs in the middle. A counter took up the back wall, with sandwiches on display in chilled cabinets. A coffee machine was bubbling and releasing pressure in little puffs of steam. The place looked exactly like what it was; one of those student hangouts where a cup of cheap coffee, a drag on a joint and all the problems of the world would be solved in fifteen minutes. Probably there would be enough time left over to pick the weekend football winners. A grin creased Buckley’s face. He remembered his student days. Was this a sign of age?

The doorbell rang again, interrupting his reverie. He watched as Mr Jones closed the door. Jones took a quick furtive glance around and then, with a look of relief, headed straight for the table where Buckley was seated.

‘What kept you?’ asked Buckley as Jones pulled out a chair and sat opposite to him. Jones looked over his shoulder and then huddled closer to the table, nearly toppling over the flower vase on the table. He licked his lips, let out a nervous laugh and said ‘It’s the wife.’

‘What do you mean, “it’s the wife”?’

Jones again broke out his nervous laugh, a bit longer this time.
Buckley interrupted him. ‘What’s the matter with your wife? You’ve got me concerned.’

‘You don’t stay married to someone for 34 years and not know when they’re up to something.’

‘What’s she up to, sir?’

‘That’s what I want you to find out. She’s meeting someone, I know that much. I pay you to investigate things. Well, get going on this today.’ Jones again let out his nervous laugh and said, ‘I’ll see you around Buckley…when you’ve got some answers,’ then he left.

Buckley was stunned. He was not a private detective. An investigative reporter, yes, but not a private detective. His specialties were small town city councils that took kickbacks from casinos, high school teachers that had affairs with their students. He certainly didn’t want a job investigating his boss’s wife. Particularly if dirty linen was involved. Jones was well known throughout this community for his various charitable works and Buckley wanted no part of smudging the image.

His situation began to worry Buckley. Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip and a slight quiver shook the coffee cup he still held. Damn! I don’t need this. Why me? He stood, gathered up his belongings and headed towards the front door. Maybe if he hurried he could catch up with Mr Jones and talk to him, make him see sense. Someone else better handle this. He hurriedly paid his bill and left the coffeehouse. He looked up and down the street but saw no sign of Mr Jones.

Damn! Buckley gulped for air. He was now sweating profusely underneath his coat, white shirt and maroon tie. His mouth was dry, which struck Buckley as rather amusing since he had just spent the last hour drinking six cups of bad coffee.

Still breathing heavily, he began to contemplate what to do next. Change jobs, was his first thought! Then he decided to go and have a look around the area of the Jones home in the most affluent part of town. It shouldn’t be difficult to see any unusual comings and goings.
The elegant white residence, with the striking purple Jacaranda tree and umpteen Camellia bushes, looked the most unlikely base for intrigue. Buckley parked a short distance from the house and began to gather his thoughts.

He thought about his small apartment in Riverview street on the other side of town. He always thought of that place when he was somewhere he didn’t want to be. He had worked for six years to perfect the décor of the small one bedroom and that was more effort than most men would put into anything. He wished he were there right now.

Still dreaming of home, Buckley was surprised to see a white Ford Fairlaine cruise to halt at the front of the house. A big man wearing an ankle length black coat, a homburg hat and black patent shoes alighted and looked around. His glance did not linger on Buckley’s old Kingswood. He carried a scruffy brief case and hurried to the front door. He appeared to be admitted without ringing the bell or knocking.

Buckley waited a few moments then curiosity got the better of him. He approached the house from a vacant side lot. He quietly moved among the Camellias to a window looking into the large living room. The large man stood in front of Mrs Jones. His voice was loud enough for Buckley to hear him say, ‘This is the only time we’ll do this, Gloria, so you had better get it right. If he gets a whisper of what’s going on my boss will call the whole thing off and that would be unfortunate for your husband.’

‘He’s not going to like this.’

‘He’ll just have to get to like it. I’ll get the job done in about six weeks then we’ll both confront Mr Jeremy Jones. He’ll get the surprise of his life!’

‘I hope you’re right. I’ve never done anything like this before.’ Mrs Jones just sat there like she was only physically in the room but her mind was far away. Then she walked to a bureau and took out a large envelope. She passed it to her visitor, who flicked through the contents and said,

‘This will make a good start, but remember you have more to do.’ Then the man turned and left the room. Buckley caught a fleeting glimpse of his face and for a moment thought he recognised him. He had the rugged looks of one of those television reporters who jam their foot in the door of some rogue second-hand car dealer and demand to know why he ripped off one of their viewers.

Buckley scampered back to his car. He watched the Fairlane speed away from the address. He was tempted to call on Mrs Jones with some fictitious pretext about why he was in the area. Better judgment prevailed and he returned to his office.

A yellow “stick-it” note sat in the centre of his desk. ‘Call Mrs Jones,’ he read. God! What next? Did she see me at the house? Does she know her husband has me checking her out. He felt his stomach knot with anxiety.

Buckley dialled the number and again began to sweat as the ring-ring sounded in his ear.

‘Gloria Jones’ the gentle voice answered.

Buckley hesitated, then spoke up. ‘Mrs Jones, it’s Buckley from the office. You wanted to speak to me.’

‘Yes Rupert, You’re the only one who can help me. My husband has been invited to open the new senior citizen’s hall. He doesn’t want to do it. He must do it. It’s important to me, too, that he do it. You must impress on him he must accept this duty. After all the paper, played such a huge part in having it built. Without the appeal he ran in the paper it wouldn’t exist.’

‘What makes you think he’d take any notice of anything I might say, Mrs Jones?’

‘He thinks a lot of you, Rupert. He respects your judgment. He has often told me if he ever wanted a ticklish job done, you’d be the first he would ask. He trusts you. Convince him, Rupert.’

‘I’ll speak to him, Mrs Jones but I have my doubts it’ll make any difference to what he does.’

‘Stick at him until he writes it in his diary. A lot is depending on you, Rupert. Don’t let me down. See you on the night. 8 o’clock November 4. That’s about six weeks. OK?’

With that she was gone.

Buckley rested his head in his large hands. His thoughts were tumbling about. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but it’s obviously more than some every day torrid affair. Bloody hell, I wish I wasn’t involved.

Convincing Jones to attend was not as difficult as Buckley first thought. A little deception had helped him.

‘I can’t tell you too much just yet but it will help the special investigation you gave me if you do this. I believe it will flush something out.’

Jones took his diary from an inside pocket and entered the time and date.

Buckley was nervous as the new hall began to fill with happy senior citizens. They were delighted their club accommodation would now meet all their needs. Mrs Jones sat in the front row reserved for guests.
First the mayor spoke and praised The Record for its part in doing so much for the city.

‘I’m now going to call on the proprietor of our paper to open this wonderful new facility.’

As Jones strode forward to the microphone, Buckley gasped as he saw the man who had driven away from the Jones home in the white Fairlaine step from behind the stage curtain. He quietly walked up behind Jones and tapped him on the shoulder. From behind his back he produced a large red book and announced, Jeremy Jones, This is your Life.