After an hour of searching the Internet fruitlessly for anything on Pandactic, Walter tried another approach. He searched for Vivien Benoit, Vivien Benoit lawyer, Vivien Benoit Social Security, Vivien Benoit Pandactic, Vivien Benoit and each city she had practiced in over the last ten years, and every other possible permutation he could think of. He found nothing. She didn’t seem to exist, but she did exist, and she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen that she hid behind the most hideous glasses on Earth.

  Walter queried the Social Security main database, the one that contains records of everyone in the country who has ever been issued a Social Security Number, but there was no one named Vivien Benoit, at least no one living. There had been exactly one person with that name, but she had died in 1948 in New Mexico.

  Faced with a dead end, a headache from eyestrain, and a stomachache from having nothing but doughnuts and coffee all day, Walter decided to call Vivien Benoit, leave a message on her voicemail about Mr. Genischewitz’s claim, and go to the diner to get something to eat. He rehearsed what he would say, decided to omit any mention of his unsubstantiated suspicions, and dialed her number.

  “Benoit Elder Law,” she answered the phone.

  Walter froze.

  “Benoit Elder Law,” she said again.

  Walter cleared his throat. “Miss Benoit, this is Walter Stickle from Social Security.”

  “Hello, Mr. Stickle.”

  “Working late?” He realized at once that this was a stupid thing to ask since she obviously was, but without a backspace key, the conversation typed onward. “I was too. I was finishing up some paperwork. Actually, I was just on my way out to get something to eat when I realized that I had written myself a note to call you about Mr. Genischewitz’s case. I was wondering if I could stop by your office on my way to the diner. I have a few questions for you. It will only take a minute.”

  “You want to come here? At this hour?”

  “Yes, it will only take a minute, and it’s right on the way.”

  “The diner is in the opposite direction.”

  “Well, I like the extra walking. I always say, ‘Why walk two blocks when you can walk four?’”

  “Wouldn’t it be six if you walk two extra blocks each way plus the original two?”

  There was a reason why Walter was a claims representative for Social Security and not a field agent for the FBI or the CIA, and definitely not Columbo. He wasn’t very good at lying or being devious. It didn’t feel good at all, and he was having trouble thinking straight with all those saints, priests, nuns, and his parents banging on the inside of his superego wanting to get out and give him a piece of their minds.

  Walter’s palms were sweating. “Of course, it would, but then I jog the last two, so I’m not technically walking them.”

  “Mr. Stickle, what questions did you have for me?”

  “Just some points of clarification on Pandactic Enterprises, their ten employees, their ten Social Security claims, and how you represented all of them.” Walter knew it was better to tell the truth, but it didn’t feel better. He felt accusatory, stupid, and exposed, but at least his conscience wasn’t banging around inside his skull anymore.

  “I’ll meet you at the diner in ten minutes,” she said and hung up.

  It was nearly eight o’clock. The Pitville Diner was packed with kids and parents celebrating after the Pirate’s little league baseball win. Walter waited in line for a booth, chatting with Mrs. Caville, the woman behind the cash register. She and her husband had owned the diner for as long as Walter could remember. Mr. Caville stopped working a few years back after his quadruple bypass and was collecting Social Security disability benefits, but he could still be found most evenings at the diner delivering coffee and good cheer to the customers. They had put their five children through college working long hours and long years, and were planning on selling the place and retiring to Florida someday, but not someday soon.

  Vivien Benoit showed up in the same blue jeans and pink blouse that she had worn at the Laundromat. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, and she was wearing one blue and one green tennis shoe.

  “Hi,” Walter said. “Thanks for meeting with me. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.” Vivien smiled. Without her insectoid glasses, she would have had a nice smile. With them, she looked like a happy little bug.

  “I think I’m a bit over-dressed,” he said of his business suit. “I came right from the office. I didn’t have time to go home and change.”

  “That’s all right. You look nice in a suit.”

  “You look nice, too,” he said.

  Mrs. Caville showed them to a booth mercifully far enough away from the little league crowd that Walter could hear himself think.

  “Do you like hamburgers?” he asked, when the waitress came by to take their orders, “because they make a great fire-grilled hamburger here. I figured since you were new in town you’d want to know what’s good. The veggie burger is okay, but not my favorite.”

  “What is your favorite?”

  “Strawberry pancakes.”

  She ordered the hamburger rare and Walter ordered strawberry pancakes.

  “You know,” he said when the food came, “you really shouldn’t eat hamburgers rare, what with the mad cows and everything.”

  “Cooking red meat to well-done temperatures on an open flame converts the amino acids, sugars, and proteins to heterocyclic amines and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which have been linked to cancer in both animal and human studies,” she said.

  “Did you learn that in law school?”

  “I read a lot.”

  “Oh, well,” said Walter. “I guess you just can’t win.”

  “It depends on what game you’re playing, Mr. Stickle.”

  “Please, call me ‘Walter.’ Can I call you ‘Vivien?’”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. That assumes we have a personal relationship, which we don’t, and presents the possibility of a conflict of interest regarding Mr. Genischewitz’s claim, and we wouldn’t want that. Would we?”

  “Well, Miss Benoit,” he said, “his claim was approved today, that was one of the things I wanted to tell you, so technically there can’t be a conflict of interest anymore.”

  The bug smiled again. It was a nice, genuine bug smile. She should have used it more often, in Walter’s opinion. That and contact lenses would have gone a long way toward improving her appearance.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’ll let him know tomorrow morning. Thank you for all your help.”

  Walter rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than one of those sinks with separate hot and cold water faucets.”

  “Sorry?” she said.

  “You turn on one faucet, and it comes out too cold. You turn the other on, and it’s too hot. So, you end up waving your hands back and forth between them trying to get it just right.”

  “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “It means that one minute you’re all serious and the next you’re, you’re nice.”

  “Are you implying that I’m moody?”

  “No, I’m just saying that most normal people have figured out that they can install a hot and cold mixer under their sink to make things work better.”

  “So, you’re implying that I’m not normal?”

  Walter looked up at the ceiling. He appreciated that the diner ceiling was covered with acoustical tile — that cut down on the noise of dishes clinking and patrons talking — but the tile above their booth was water-stained and didn’t look long for this world. His gaze returned to Vivien. “No. It’s just that you’re done representing Lenny. The case is closed. So, can I call you ‘Vivien?’”

  “Mr. Stickle…”

  “Walter,” he corrected her.

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Vivien got something in her eye, took off her glasses to take care of it, and there they were again, the most beautiful eyes in the world.

  “You have the nicest eyes, Vivien,” he said.

  She blushed. “You said you had questions for me, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “That is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, more or less. I mean… Look,” said Walter. “I’m just going to come right out and say it. I really want to believe there’s nothing fishy going on here. I really do. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation why you’ve moved ten times in the last ten years — maybe you’re a gypsy. And I’m sure there’s a reason why you handled every Social Security claim by every one of Pandactic’s employees — you’re a good lawyer, so why not? And I’m willing to admit that it could just be a coincidence that the ten claims were filed almost exactly a year apart — stranger things have happened. But what I can’t understand is why you don’t have a Social Security number. Everyone has a Social Security number.”

  “I’m not a U.S. citizen.”

  She could have hit him on the head with a fish and gotten less of a reaction. “Oh, boy, do I feel stupid,” he said. “I am so sorry.” Then, he thought a moment. “Wait a minute. Aliens are liable for all U.S. taxes. They have to get Social Security numbers too.”

  “I’m not from outer space, Mr. Stickle.”

  Walter sometimes forgot that normal people, even lawyers, didn’t speak governmentese, and at the office he always tried to steer clear of acronyms and technical jargon, but he wasn’t at the office and he’d forgotten.

  “Not that kind of alien,” he said. “I meant the kind from another country. Once they become legal residents here, they’re subject to taxes just like the rest of us, so they have to get a Social Security card.”

  “I’m only in your country for a few weeks every year.”

  The light bulb that appears over that cartoon character’s head, the one that shows he has an idea, lit up and exploded over Walter’s.

  “Oh,” he said. “I am so stupid. You’re not a resident of the U.S. Are you French? Your name sounds French, and I thought I detected a slight accent, but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”

  “Tu pense, donc je suis,” Vivien said.

  “Wow, that’s great. French is such an awesome language. It makes me think of baguettes and wine and cheese and the Eiffel Tower. So, Pandactic Enterprises was a subsidiary of a French company, and you work out of their main office in France, right?”

  Vivien shrugged. “You’re a very smart man.”

  “Actually, I’m not, and now I feel bad. I’m sorry I suspected that you were doing something…”

  “Illegal?”

  “Well, it did seem suspicious. I didn’t want to believe it. I knew it couldn’t be true,” he added.

  “It’s all right. You were only doing your job.”

  “Thanks.” Walter could have baaed like a lamb, he was grinning so sheepishly. “So, do you have a villa on the Côte d'Azur, or maybe a vineyard in Burgundy?”

  She laughed. “No. Where I come from, things are not as beautiful as that, at least not anymore.”

  “I guess that’s progress. Too bad ‘progress’ doesn’t always mean ‘better.’”

  “Yes, it is too bad.”

  “Come on, don’t look so sad,” said Walter. “You just had the best burger in Pitville. How was it?”

  “I think I should have gotten the pancakes.”

  “It’s not too late. We can go for round two if you’re still hungry. I can do this all night. I won the Knights of Columbus pancake-eating contest five years in a row.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I just made that up. I only won once. No, twice.”

  Vivien laughed so hard she cried. She took off her glasses to wipe away the tears, and when she glanced up, Walter was staring at her.

  “I guess you can’t see too well without those?” he said.

  “I need them to see things, yes.”

  Walter looked out the window at a couple holding hands as they were walking along the street.

  “What are you thinking about?” Vivien asked.

  “I was just wondering,” he said. “Now that Mr. Genischewitz is all squared away, I guess you’ll be going back to France soon.”

  “Yes, I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Will you be coming back again?”

  “Lenny was the last one that I’m responsible for.”

  “So I guess that’s a ‘no.’”

  “I’m not leaving just yet. There’s another matter I have to take care of first.”

  Walter brightened up. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “So, it’s okay to call you ‘Vivien?’”

  Her mouth turned a little into a crooked smile. “Yes, Walter. It’s okay.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call you ‘Miss Benoit’ whenever you’re dressed for battle.”

  “Dressed for battle?”

  “You know, whenever you’re in your gangster outfit?”

  “I looked like a gangster?”

  He nodded. “Like how this getup makes me look like a bank president? Or how that guy over there in the sweats looks like he should be a professional athlete? I do that a lot,” he shrugged. “I look at people and imagine what they might be from what they wear.” When he noticed her staring at him, he added, “Of course, they rarely are. I’m no bank president, and you’re no gangster. You’re not, are you?”

  “Not last I checked,” she said.

  The traffic light at the corner turned green, but the car that was stopped at the light didn’t move. The guy driving it was still talking to someone who was leaning in the passenger-side window. The man in the car behind them didn’t beep and didn’t flash his headlights. He just waited.

  “Do you know, I’ve lived in Pitville all my life?” Walter said. “Even the four years I was in college.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Glassville State. It made sense. I mean, we’re within walking distance. It was a lot cheaper than the others too. I majored in political science, but I wasn’t very good at it.”

  “You’re good at what you do now.”

  “I like helping people,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “What about you?” he asked, staring into the pool of strawberry syrup where his pancakes had been. “Where did you go to school?”

  “No place special.”

  “It had to be special if you went there.”

  Vivien looked down at her napkin.

  “Lawyers have a few more years of law school after college, don’t they?” Walter asked. “Then they have to clerk with a judge. That must have been grueling.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “You don’t look old enough. I mean, all that extra schooling and then ten years, at least, that you’ve been practicing law? You don’t look any older than me. You must have started young or been a child prodigy. Maybe it’s all that French cooking, or are you sleeping in formaldehyde every night so you don’t age?”

  “Still suspicious?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Walter. “I was just trying to be funny.”

  “You are funny, Walter, but in an odd sort of way.”

  Walter looked at his watch. “Would you like to go to the movies? We have a great old theater in town called the Broadway. They used to do Vaudeville there and live music. Frank Sinatra was there once. Now it’s just a movie house, but it’s way cheaper and better than going to the mall.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Sure, why not? There’s a show at nine-thirty. We can just make it.”

  “Okay,” she smiled.

  Walter paid the check over Vivien’s protests, and she left the tip.

  Pitville at 9:30 p.m. on a summer night was the kind of place where you could take a walk on Broadway and not feel like you had to peer around every dark corner for muggers or check out every car that drove past for trouble. It clung to normalcy like Walter’s parents clung to the 1950s, and if the old buildings in town could talk, they would say things like, “Gee Whiz,” and “Shucks and golly,” and “Isn’t this super?”

  “Isn’t this super?” Walter said, gesturing to the star-filled night. “What I like most about this town is that people are nice here, they don’t look the other way when you pass them on the street, and nobody’s afraid of anybody else. We all know each other, and even if we don’t, we’re still neighbors.”

  “It’s different. It is nice,” Vivien said.

  “Not like this where you come from?”

  “No, nothing like this.”

  They stopped when they came to Vivien’s office. Walter looked in the window at the newly placed cardboard “Benoit Elder Law” sign taped on the inside glass. “I see you’ve done some redecorating,” he said.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at either housekeeping or office-keeping.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’re very silly,” Vivien said.

  “People have said that about me.”

  She seemed to be staring off into space at something, and then adjusted her glasses.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking that by the time I have the office all arranged, it will be time for me to go.”

  They said little after that, listening to the music coming from someone’s second floor apartment over the Pitville News as they walked through town. When they reached the Broadway Theater, Walter agreed to Vivien’s buying the tickets if he could pay for the popcorn and soda.

  One cartoon short, eight previews of coming attractions, and one ninety-four minute movie later, they were back on the street.

 

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