Senior moments, Sheila's friends called them. They'd all experienced the sudden refusal of the brain to supply the name of an acquaintance, a book, or an ingredient in a favorite recipe. They'd fill in the blanks for each other when they could or nod that they knew the illusive word and the conversation would continue. The part that had always amazed Sheila was that often, when the brain was otherwise engage, it continued to seek the word. And when she was involved in a completely unrelated matter, it would suddenly come to her.
While running the scanner and the shredder, with her mind working overtime to figure out how she was going to get more tetracycline and get it to Mateo, she thought : one kilo. Two point two zero four six pounds equaled one kilo. She still couldn't think of the song from the seventies, but she now remembered that it had something to do with cocaine. She went over to the shelves of documents waiting to be processed. It took her about fifteen minutes, but she found a batch of postage requisitions. She flipped through them, pulling out the ones having Carl's unreadable scrawl. Each one was for a package that weighted two point two zero four pounds, or one kilo. She said, "You dirty dog."
Going down in the elevator to the mail room, she devised a plan. The doors slid open revealing a mass of busy people. About twenty-five temps sat at a huge table and stuffed envelopes with the 10,000 monthly bills that would have to go out in the afternoon mail. Boxes, waiting to go out, occupied every available space to the point of violating safety regulations. Three people stood in front of Carl pelting him with questions. He looked like he hadn't showered in days and like might collapse.
Sheila stepped in front of the others waiting to talk to him and held out the papers for him to see. "I need to talk to you in you office," she said. "Right now!"
With a look of great disdain he said, "I don't have time."
She leaned in close to him and said, "Maybe you have time to figure out the metric equivalent of two point two pounds."
He reacted as if he'd been sucker punched. He wheezed and leaned on a near by table for support.
One of the mail room clerks said, "Are you okay?"
"I'll be in my office," he said. "Door closed."
When she and Carl were seated on opposite sides of his desk, she said, "I know you use the mail room to ship cocaine." He started to object, but she went on, "I've created a separate file of your requisitions. Each one has the name and address of the person who received a kilo from you."
He smiled, "Since you came to me instead of going to management or the cops, I assume you want hush money. I can handle a one time, cost of doing business payout. But that's all. Understand?"
Sheila said, "I don't want money."
He looked very surprised, "What do you want?"
"I need to meet your supplier."
"You're out of your fucking mind."
"You're going to hate it in prison." She stood up and started for the door.
"Wait!" he said, "Christ I can't even remember your name."
She sat down and said, "I'm Sheila from Archives. You've left quite a data trail."
"Listen, Sheila Archive, we can work something out."
"I want to meet your supplier. You want to stay out of prison. There's nothing to work out."
"You don't know what you're asking. It's very complicated."
"First rule of business - don't bore a customer with your internal problems. They don't give a shit. Contact your supplier, the one who brings the cocaine into the country - not some middle man, and arrange for us to meet. Or I'll send my file to the DEA."
"It's no that simple."
Sheila stood up, "Actually it is."
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