Never Again – 16

 

It was late the following morning when Jennifer got back to Joseph to tell him he had an appointment with a man named Calvin Gilbert at three o'clock.

"He heads an organization called Rebuild NOLA."

Joseph cocked an eyebrow, saying, "That sounds like a construction company, not a group that helps the homeless."

"That's what I said when I interviewed him. He somewhat snarkily told me rebuilding a city involved all its citizens, including those who had no place to go home to. He'd made it his mission to solve the problem."

"Hmm. I remember seeing the organization mentioned in your files for your story but not his name."

"I know. He's very… how shall I put it? Reclusive? As far as he's concerned, and he made this very clear to me, what his organization does is what's important, not the people involved in it, including himself. I was lucky to even get him to talk to me."

"And yet you managed to get me an appointment."

"I think"—she laughed—"I might have mentioned you had money and were interested in investing it in the organization if it met your criteria."

"Gee, thanks. Now he's going to think I'm some dilettante with nothing better to do than spend my time looking for good causes."

"Hey, whatever works. At least he is willing to talk to you."

"Good point. Thank you, Jennifer." When he asked, she gave him the address where he was to meet Mr. Gilbert and they hung up.

* * * *

At two-fifty-five that afternoon Joseph was standing across the street from an obviously rebuilt house on the edge of the Lower Ninth Ward. It was surrounded by its less fortunate neighbors and areas where nature had taken over, filling vacant lots with weeds, some standing a tall as a man's head, others covering the ruined structures with clinging vines. He wondered what sort of things lived in the weeds, what sort of trash was buried beneath them, and he decided he didn't really want to know when it came right down to it.

A sign on the front door of the house announced Rebuild NOLA in plain lettering. No logo, nothing but the two words. Joseph cocked an eyebrow at that when he rang the bell. He heard footsteps then the door swung open.

The man standing there was about two inches taller than Joseph's five-eleven. He had short, almost military-cut dark hair, and piercing dark blue eyes. The black tee shirt he was wearing emphasized his muscular torso.

"Mr. Gilbert?" When the man nodded sharply, Joseph held out his hand. "I'm Joseph Moncure. I have an appointment."

For a second, Joseph thought the man would ignore his outstretched hand. He didn't. Shaking it briefly, he gave a quick jerk of his head to indicate Joseph could come inside. "I'm Calvin but I prefer Cal. If you'll follow me, we'll go into my office to talk."

The office was utilitarian at best with a large metal desk in the center, two armless straight-backed chairs facing it on one side and a somewhat more comfortable-looking wheeled executive chair on the other. One wall was lined with tall, steel file cabinets, the second held a large window covered by Venetian blinds. On the wall opposite the file cabinets, there was a low metal table with a coffee-maker and a few unmatched cups. Above it hung several framed documents. From where he was now seated, Joseph thought they were awards and perhaps graduation certificates.

"How may I help you?" Cal asked, lacing his fingers, as he stared at Joseph.

"To begin with, I want to know exactly what it is you're doing to help the city's homeless. I also need to know more about the problem itself. It's one thing to read about it or listen to news reports. It's another to talk face-to-face with someone who's intimately involved."

Cal shook his head. "Do you always talk like a lecturing professor, Mr. Moncure?"

Joseph winced. "Not usually, I hope. And call me Joe, if you would."

Getting to his feet, Cal crossed to one of the file cabinets, took out a thick folder, and came back, setting it down in front of Joseph. "This should tell you all you need to know about my organization, Joe."

"Can't you tell me?"

"I could, but I have better things to do than spend time talking about it when all the information is right there in front of you."

"I think," Joseph replied, feeling anger rising, "you need to find someone to talk to potential donors who is a bit more courteous."

Cal gave him a brief smile. "I let my work speak for me." He leaned forward to tap the folder. "It's all in there, as I said. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do." He stood, obviously waiting for Joseph to do likewise so he could escort him out of the office.

"Go ahead and do them." Joseph got up, but only long enough to take off his suit coat and hang it over the back of the chair. Then he sat, rolled up his sleeves, and opened the folder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Cal barked out.

Joseph looked up at him, biting back a small grin. "What you said, reading the information."

"I meant…"

"I know what you meant, but I'm not that easily gotten rid of. I came here to learn about your organization and perhaps, if I agree with what it's all about, to lend a hand."

"Meaning you'll toss a small donation our way," Cal growled, sitting down again looking sourly at Joseph.

"Partially," Joseph agreed with a nod, not taking his eyes off Cal. "However it takes more than money to help people who need help but might not want it or be willing to accept it."

Cal leaned back, hands behind his head as he stared at Joseph. "Somehow I don't see you as the hands-on type."

"Why?" Joseph asked, genuinely curious.

"For starters, you're wearing a suit which probably cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars. Secondly, your nails are well manicured. Third, I'd be willing to bet you visit your barber at least once a week to keep your beard and mustache so well trimmed. I'd also bet you live in, hmm, Lake Terrace or Lake Oaks. You're a wealthy man, Joe, and your kind doesn't do hands-on."

Joseph laughed. "Don't judge the book by the cover. If I were to do that with you, I'd say…" He tapped his fingers together. "You're ex-military, work out, dress for comfort no matter what, probably not married since you're not wearing a ring. You might have anger-management issues. If so, you've learned to control them but only if you aren't pushed too hard."

Cal frowned as Joseph talked. It had deepened by the time he was finished. Still, there was a small smile on his face when he said, "You pretty well nailed it, other than the working out. I don't have to. I spend at least part of every day at a site, working with the crews rebuilding houses here in the Lower Ninth to make them habitable again for families who need them." He chuckled low. "Now how close was I about you?"

"Pretty much on target, although I don't go to the barber that often. I do know how to wield scissors and clippers. And"—he smiled slightly—"I live in the Garden District."

"So like I said, wealthy."

Joseph shrugged. "I won't deny it but it doesn't mean I'm one of the idle rich. I've spent my whole life working…"

"Doing what?" Cal interrupted.

"You didn't do your homework when Jennifer set up this appointment?"

"Okay, yeah, I sort of slacked on that part. She mentioned you used to be her boss and I didn't take it any further." Again he studied Joseph. "Your whole life is what, thirty years, and at least twenty of them you had to be just growing up. So you've been working for ten years give or take. If you were her boss then you've been sitting on your butt running that news site. Hardly hard labor."

"True, but I still bet I could match you move for move, working on one the houses you're rebuilding." Joseph knew he probably shouldn't have sent out the challenge but Cal's attitude was getting to him. All he wanted was to do something positive to help the homeless and the man was acting as if he didn't have the right to care about them.

"You're on," Cal replied with a smirk. "Meet me here tomorrow morning, dressed in something other than a thousand dollar suit. And be prepared to lose that great manicure, Mr. Moncure."

"What time?" Joseph asked as he stood, picking up the folder and slinging his suit jacket over his shoulder.

"Seven, on the dot. I'm not waiting for you."

"Deal."

* * * *

"Open mouth, insert foot," Joseph muttered under his breath when he walked away from Rebuild NOLA and Cal Gilbert. On the other hand, I can keep up with whatever he wants me to do. That's no problem. I'll show him you don't have to be built like a heavyweight boxer to do hard labor. He laughed aloud, immediately wondering if the men sitting on the stoop of a partially rebuilt house he was passing thought he was crazy. He noted the familiar 'X', faded but still visible on the wall beside the front door. If anything, they probably think I'm just another do-gooder or a wandering tourist checking out the damage Katrina wrought.

He continued on his way, passing a small cluster of eco-friendly houses that he recalled had been paid for by some actor. Good, as far as it goes, he thought. But the area needs a hell of a lot more.

Nearing his car, he saw one house still in total disrepair. As he passed it, he saw the tall weeds move then two people inched their way along the side of the house toward the back. One had a large, very battered backpack. The other carried a bedroll slung over one shoulder. Both were dressed in layers of well-used clothing.

So what I read was right, the homeless are taking over at least some of the abandoned houses. Not that he'd doubted it, but now he had the visual proof.

He wondered if he should inform someone. But who? And what good would it do? They'd probably, at best, roust them out of there and they'd just move on to another place. God knows there are still enough derelict houses around here, despite the efforts of the government and the do-gooders. Of which I'm one, he thought with a soft chuckle.

As he drove away, he noted a beauty salon, repainted and open for business, although there didn't seem to be anyone inside other than two women he figured were the owners or employees since neither was working on the other's hair. At the corner of the same block he saw a bar with a few people sitting outside, chatting, smoking, and drinking. That seems to be it for neighborhood businesses, at least right around here. And how many of them—he glanced back at the men through his rearview mirror—are homeless too?