Free Meter Maids Eat Their Young by E. J. Knapp Page A

removing them.  I started walking toward downtown, counting the number of defaced meters. At fifty, I gave up. Either the Mangler had help or had labored long into the night.
    I looked back at the clock. It read 10:30 a.m. I checked my cell phone, remembering as I did that the time on it was wrong as well. I’d received no calls. There was no unusual police activity that I could see. The meter maids themselves would have been out and about by 6:00 a.m. Hadn’t they noticed the change? Certainly there were people on the street who had. Yet no one had reported it.
    I looked back at the cart still sitting on N. Main. The Meter Mangler had done a very professional job of masking one word with the other. Same font. Same color. The background of the decal a perfect match to the color of the cart.
    I called Felice.
    â€œI sent two reporters down,” she said by way of greeting. They’ll be looking for you outside the Coney Island restaurant anytime now.”
    â€œYou knew about the carts then?” I said.
    There was a long silence.
    â€œRight,” I said. “I’ll go find them.” I thought of a question I wanted to ask HL. “By the way,” I said before she could hang up. “I need to see HL again.”
    â€œHe’s left the office,” she said. I noticed something odd in her voice.
    â€œIs everything okay, Felice?”
    There was another long silence. “I … believe things will work out … and Teller, when the time comes, remember to give him the things you’ve found,” she said.
    â€œThings I’ve found? What does that mean?”
    â€œYou’ll know when the time comes. You better get along. They’ll be waiting for you.”
    â€œRight,” I said, confused as always over Felice’s strange pronouncements. “I’ll call later.”
    I hung up, a bad feeling settling over me. Something was up with HL and Felice knew what it was. Or intuited it: One and the same thing, really. With her. But I knew from long experience that Felice revealed what she thought needed revealing and only when she believed it needed to be revealed. Obviously, whatever was going on wasn’t something she thought I needed to know yet.  I pocketed the phone and headed for the restaurant.
    They were waiting. One of each gender. Clean cut, eager looking, color in their cheeks, eyes darting up and down the street in anticipation. They spotted me and came bounding over like newly-weaned puppies.
    I pointed out the parking enforcement cart and the decals on the meters and told them to interview anyone who would talk to them and to write down whatever they heard. I told them to eavesdrop, too. Sometimes people will say amongst themselves what they won’t say to a reporter or a cop. And I made sure they understood I wanted their thoughts and observations as well, separate from the facts, but clearly sketched out. Sometimes there is more valuable information hidden in what a reporter thinks is going on than to be found in a recitation of the obvious.
    Suddenly, like dogs to a silent whistle, several of the little Cushman carts made abrupt turns in the street and started heading out of town. Several more appeared up the street and in a short time there was a whole parade of them heading off in the same direction. Obviously someone was recalling the troops to home base.
    I sent the kids on their way and headed to where the action was.

A Complex And Difficult Ethical Conundrum
    By the time I arrived at the central storage yard for the carts, a half dozen workers were busy pouring some kind of gloop on the decals, causing them to bubble but not much else. It didn’t look as though they were having an easy time of removing the offending decals. Someone had finally called the cops. Two detectives were inspecting several carts; no doubt looking for fingerprints or whatever else they could find that would constitute evidence. I flashed my news