Free Restoration by John Ed Bradley Page A

But there was no evidence of Asmore’s mural, nothing high on the walls to indicate that a canvas lay hidden under coats of paint. The room had probably served the post office as a foyer, while my guess placed the lobby in the large open space with the beautician’s chairs.
    Rhys sidled up to the janitor, bravely depositing footprints on the freshly cleaned floor. She pulled at imaginary headphones. “May we have a minute of your time, sir? May we have…
sir
, may we have a minute?”
    The man continued mopping, making bigger circles than before.
    “Okay, then,” Rhys said, “what about
half
a minute? Is half a minute too long? How about fifteen seconds? Would you allow us
ten
seconds?”
    He tugged at his headset and let it drop to his neck, and I could hear the music better: seventies R&B.
    “Hi, there,” Rhys said, flashing a smile. “We were hoping to have a look around in that room there.” She pointed to it. “Would you mind?”
    He might’ve been fifty years old, but his body was cut with slabs of muscle that padded his gray, work-stained coveralls. His head was shaved and scars stood out on his shiny, copper-colored scalp. He glanced back over his shoulder and acted as if he’d only now noticedthe room with the beautician’s chairs. His mouth formed a circle, as if to say “Oh.” “I take it you talked to Mrs. Sanchez,” he said.
    “Mrs. Sanchez? Yes, well, we have talked to Mrs. Sanchez, as a matter of fact. And she said it was fine with her. Would you mind?”
    That was all it took to get him to move out of the way: permission from Mrs. Sanchez and far more obsequiousness than I thought Rhys Goudeau capable of. “Watch your step,” the janitor said. “Those tiles tend to get slippery.” As we were moving past him he said, “Mrs. Sanchez in Admissions, right?”
    “Right,” Rhys said.
    The man dunked his mop back in the bucket, intentionally splashing water on the floor; I had to step quickly to avoid getting my shoes wet. “There is no Mrs. Sanchez in Admissions,” he said. “There was a
Mr.
Sanchez who taught hair weave, but he was only part-time and hasn’t been around here in ten, twelve years.” He was gripping the wooden mop handle with both fists, holding it close to his waist. “State your business,” he said, with nostrils flaring. “You two from Baton Rouge?”
    “Baton Rouge?” Rhys said.
    “I can spot you people a mile away.”
    “What people?”
    “You know what people.” He paused, wiped the sweat off his face. “You’re inspectors with the government, aren’t you?”
    “Inspectors?” Rhys said. “Why would you say we’re inspectors?”
    “And why would you want to torment Miss Wheeler?” he shot back. “You oughta be ashamed. You really should.”
    “What are you talking about?” I said. “We’ve never even met Miss Wheeler. How can you torment somebody you don’t know?”
    He started mopping again. He erased our prints and reached to where we were standing. It was my impression that he would’ve erased both Rhys and me had he been able to extend his mop that far.
    “We’re not them,” Rhys said. “I swear to God we’re not them.”
    “You look like them.”
    “Listen to me,” she said. “We heard this building was once a postoffice and we came today because we’re curious to learn more about it. That’s all. We’re amateur historians who appreciate fine old architecture. We were doing research and we read about the building in some newspaper clippings in a museum archive. The truth is, we came to snoop around. We’re snoops, all right? I’m not ashamed to say it.”
    He was looking at her the same way I was. It was a look that communicated as much bewilderment as amusement.
    She stepped up closer to him, leaving more tracks. “We’re no more the government than you are,” she said. “And I think you know that. Why would inspectors be coming around here, anyway?”
    “That ain’t my place to say.”
    “Do you have a