Free The Last Refuge by Chris Knopf

whenever. I don’t think there’s a list,” she looked around the empty desk area in front of her, searching for explanations. “Do you think we should?”
    “No, I’m just wondering who comes here. Just curious.”
    She tried to understand me, but the necessary circuitry had been disconnected. She looked upset.
    “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just curious. This looks like a nice place.”
    She lit up, relieved to be back on familiar ground.
    “Oh yes, it’s very nice. Would you like lunch? Here’s our activity schedule for October.” She dug a slim blue pamphlet out of a drawer. She slapped it down on the countertop and patted it like the head of a grandchild.
    “Lots to do. Lots to do.”
    I folded it once and stuck it in my back pocket.
    “Thanks.”
    She nodded and looked back down at her desktop full of nothing. I went inside. It was a big open room with circular tables set up around the periphery.Women who looked as old as the people at the tables were moving around with trays of food. I spotted Hodges at a table by himself with a steaming plate of hot turkey sandwich. His back was to the wall and his eyes fixed on his meal.
    “You’re right. It looks good.”
    He frowned.
    “They won’t serve you. You gotta have a Senior Card.”
    “That’s okay, Mr. Hodges. Already ate.”
    I sat down a few seats away. His frown got a little deeper.
    “Go ahead,” I said to him, “eat.”
    “I’m going to. This is my lunch.”
    “Go ahead.”
    He did, reluctantly. Old manners die hard. At the surrounding tables elderly people lingered over their coffee or tea and were joined by people who looked to be volunteers. I felt like an interloper in an entirely alien place. Tolerated, but not really welcome.
    Hodges got me a cup of coffee to go with his. I told him I’d found Jimmy Maddox. He seemed a little interested. Then we talked about fishing for a while before I asked him if anyone in the room had hung out with Regina Broadhurst. He squinted his big frog eyes and looked around the room, but shook his head.
    “Not that I can remember.”
    A big woman, late forties, with a huge head of jetblack beauty parlor hair and a blunt hatchet of a nose, strode toward us. She wore some sort of undefinable casual clothes and a red knit sweater that clung to herbody like chain mail. Behind her plastic-rimmed glasses her eyes were sharp and on the move. She looked like an overfed predatory bird.
    “Hello.”
    Her hand thrust forward to shake mine. It reminded me of a karate chop.
    “Hello,” I said back, taking her hand.
    “I’m Barbara Filmore. The executive director.”
    “She runs the place,” said Hodges, helping me out.
    “Sam Acquillo. I’m with him.” I nodded toward Hodges. She kept her eyes on me.
    “I understand you were trying to get a list of our clients,” she said, neither as a question nor a statement. By then I’d forgotten that I had.
    “No ma’am, not exactly. Just trying to look up a few old friends.”
    “Like me,” said Hodges.
    “We don’t keep those sorts of records. Are you connected with the state?”
    Only someone from Social Services would call a bunch of old geezers clients.
    “No ma’am. I’m just looking for old friends of my mother. She passed away recently.”
    “I’m sorry.” She didn’t move much, and stood very close to where I was sitting. I got the vague feeling that she’d tackle me if I tried to make a run for it. “Who are you looking for?”
    “Regina Broadhurst and Julia Anselma. Know ’em?”
    Her face was immobile.
    “They’ve passed away as well. Very recently, in fact. I’m sorry to have to tell you. What was your name, again?”
    “Sam. I guess you should expect it. They weren’t kids.”
    “They hadn’t been well.”
    “Really.”
    I slid my chair away from the table. Her head turned to follow me, but the rest of her stayed in place. She took off her glasses and stuck the tip of a temple in her mouth. She slid her weight over to her