Free Ask Not For Whom The Panther Prowls by Astor James Monroe Page A

“God that feels
good.”
    The night nurse looked at him. “Mr. Rogers,
John, what are you doing?”
    “ Sorry son,
but it's time to leave. Can't say it's been the most pleasant of
stays, but I'd recommend this motel to anyone who needs it. I'd say
it rates four and a half bed-pans.”
    It wasn't that easy of course, but as Dr. John
Rogers was clearly in command of his faculties, the next week found
him back on the street, blinking in the unexpectedly bright light
of an Atlanta Fall.
    “ Damn,” he
said to no one in particular, “I didn't think it would take them
that long.” His lab had long since been closed, with his students
disbursed to other, more productive, or perhaps, better stated,
more active and alive mentors. He called a taxi, and after a bit of
negotiation convinced it to take him to his condo block at a
discount. At least his key still fit.
    He turned
the lock and cautiously pushed the door open. There was a slight
resistance. “Doubt that's cobwebs.” He pulled it closed and locked
it again. “I'll have to ask the landlord to get it cleaned before I
move in. If he does it the day before payday he can save himself
some money.”
    He sauntered
down the hall, pushed the elevator button and waited. Two burly
Hispanic men came and stood beside him. One on each side. He missed
the elevator, as, at their forceful suggestion, they took the
stairs. They used the back exit, hurried him into a waiting car and
sped off.
    As they sped
off, they blew through a red light in their haste. Unfortunately
for them, it was near the end of the fiscal month and the state
police had to fill their quota in a hurry. After a brief chase they
stopped. It didn't take long for the police computer to link Dr.
Roger's companions to their warrants. Dr. Rogers kept his mouth
shut, which the men much appreciated, and as an uncooperative
witness who was just riding with his friends, he was free to go. He
went.
    More to the point he was picked up by his
friends. They drove a late-model BMW and drove him to a mansion in
Buckhead.
     

15. Graduate
Admissions.
    I was negotiating the crowds on Peachtree during
the inter-class rush when I ran into a pair of the Bengali women
Laura and I had met at the airport. I didn't recognize them, of
course, but they were lost and I looked vaguely familiar so they
asked me a question.
    “Sir, Can you help?”
    “Yes, well maybe.” At least they weren't
pan-handling. “What do you need?”
    “Where is the Physics Department?”
    “That's easy, just walk back to Peachtree Ave
and then a block north. It's the sixth floor in 25 Peachtree, the
old Sun-Trust bulding.”
    I received a puzzled look. My directions could
have been in Greek for all they helped. So I asked, “Why did you
want to know?”
    They looked at each other and discussed for a
few moments, then one replied, “We're applying for the Master's
program.”
    “Why don't you follow me? I'm heading that
way.”
    We chatted a bit as I helped them thread the
maze of students who were hurrying to class, the maze of the
professionally indigent, and the maze of vehicles whose frustrated
drivers were preparing to force their way through the students.
They had taken advantage of an offer to come to the US as maids,
but it hadn't been as nice as they had been led to believe.
    I said, “I'm sorry to hear that. Where are you
living?”
    “With our master's in a big house.” I figured
that. Only the tip of the one-percent could hire a foreign
maid.
    The other one added, “In Buckhead. This is our
afternoon off. The first one in a month.”
    I don't know the labor laws and how they apply
to maids, but that didn't seem fully legal. So I asked, “How will
you be able to attend classes?”
    “We'll leave once we are admitted.”
    This struck me as optimistic, but not
impossible. I replied, “Will you be able to quit?”
    They conferred again, and one smiled at me,
“They took our passports, but I found them when cleaning the
master's bedroom. We