The government has always been filled with positions that required precision, and according to the department manuals covering the performance and duties of official bookkeepers, he was considered a paragon of exactitude in his field. He, in this case, was one Bartholomew Thacker, Bookkeeper V, General Services Administration, United States Government, Midwest Division, Kansas City, Missouri, office.
And though Bartholomew Thacker worked alone, slept alone, and dined alone, it would have been less than fair to say he lived a life of complete solitude. According to the regulations, his work demanded occasional interaction with others in the department. And he interfaced daily with his landlady, Mrs. Bradley, as well as a waitress named Bea at the Way-Fair Diner where he took breakfast each morning.
Further, he would never have considered his life devoid of color and interest. For quite some time he'd maintained a collection of bonsai trees and he enjoyed an adoring relationship with Olivia, the cat owned by Mrs. Bradley, who'd rented him a room since he'd come to Kansas City some twenty-nine years ago.
Yet one might say his daily routines were as predictable as his attention to detail. He arose at 7 AM each morning, not a minute before or after, and following his ablutions, he'd don a charcoal black suit with a vest displaying a gold fob attached to a pocket watch and black laced shoes buffed the night before. Why he carried the watch no one could say. He could tell anyone the time day or night without so much as a cursory glance at the watch.
At 7:30 AM, he'd make a final check of his bonsai trees to assure himself that they were positioned for just the right amount of sunlight during the day. Then, with umbrella in hand, he'd descend the stairs, bid Mrs. Bradley a good day and take a moment to dote on Olivia the cat, who'd meet him on the front steps daily unless, of course, there appeared to be a chance of rain.
Sixteen minutes later Bartholomew Thacker would turn into the doorway of the Way-Fair Diner as he had every day since he had reported to the Midwest office of the GSA in Kansas City years ago. Bea, the sole waitress in the café, would greet him as he made his way to the last booth in the back, his chosen spot for breakfast. And unless the Way-Fair was unusually busy, Bea would follow him to his table, order pad in hand. This was never necessary since he placed the same order each day: two hard-boiled eggs, two strips of bacon, two slices of toast-unbuttered, and a cup of black coffee. Yet Bea never asked, "The usual?" nor did he suggest such himself. The specifics of the exchange suited him, and the waitress understood and respected his routine.
Most days Bea would have a copy of the morning newspaper left by an earlier diner. She'd save it behind the counter for his arrival and, while she'd place the order with the cook, Bartholomew Thacker would scan the front page of the paper. Today's headline read: KILLERS LOOSE IN THE CITY. He gave the article scant attention other than to note that two inmates had escaped from a Kansas prison and had been seen in the Kansas City area the day before. The two, the story said, were armed and dangerous.
By the time the check had come, he'd have consumed the coffee, one egg, one slice of bacon and placed the remaining bacon between two slices of toast and wrapped the same in a napkin. This, along with the other hard-boiled egg, would suffice for his midday meal in the park where he'd read more of the newspaper he'd taken with him. At 8:15 AM each day he'd shuffle to the register, pay exact change and hand Bea a quarter for service.
The office was abuzz with the news of the killers in the city that day, but Bartholomew Thacker could not be bothered with such small talk. He had work to do and a reputation to uphold: precise data to deliver in a timely manner. This had been his mantra for twenty-nine years. What was different, and still unknown to anyone else in the office, was his plan to retire in six months and three days. And on Monday he'd submit the completed forms that sat in his desk.
Today was Friday and payday, and a paper check would be hand-delivered to Bartholomew Thacker, the lone holdout who'd never opted for direct deposit. As always, this afternoon he'd deposit the check at his bank on the route home, withholding enough cash to pay his rent and to provide for other needs until the next payday arrived.
His retirement strategy was simple; he planned to move to Florida. He'd give Mrs. Bradley one month's notice, pack his meager belongings, and take a bus to Tampa. Bartholomew Thacker had never been to Florida, but he'd read about it extensively in the local library. And upon arrival he'd planned on staying at the local YMCA until he could find a situation that would suit his needs.
He'd also read about the sport of fishing, including articles on fish indigenous to the Tampa Bay area as well as the proper tackle and lures to catch them. This endeavor, he'd decided, would become his new retirement pastime. The only challenge that remained was the disposition of his bonsai trees. He knew he could give them to the local arboretum where they'd receive proper care, but he really wanted to gift them to Mrs. Bradley for her many kindnesses to him. Still, he wasn't sure she'd want or fully appreciate them. He was troubled with what to do, yet he knew he had time to ponder this dilemma.
On his way home after completing his bank transactions, he began to muse over what he might select at the deli for his evening meal in his room. Though the day remained overcast with a threat of rain, he felt a skip in his step. This was a special day, the last day at the office before everyone there would know he planned to retire. Today, he decided he'd have dinner at the Way-Fair Diner, a unique experience for him.
When he walked into the cafe, the eyes of the waitress widened, her mouth in a perfect O. Bartholomew Thacker smiled, nodded, and took a seat at his favorite booth. The menu she proffered looked different, the choices overwhelming, but after a brief give-and-take with Bea, he settled in and opened his newspaper to peruse the articles he'd neglected earlier in the day.
A gentle rain fell over the dark streets when two ruddy-faced fellows entered the diner, shook rain from their arms and made their way to the counter stools. The bookkeeper took no notice of them as he continued to scan the paper.
"What's good here, sister?" one said to the waitress as she approached the two.
"Tonight's special is meatloaf. Comes with peas and potatoes, bread and a drink," she said.
"Ya hear that, Jed? Meatloaf. You think we come here for meatloaf?" Both of the men broke into fits of derisive laughter.
Hearing the commotion Bartholomew Thacker glanced up over his newspaper to see who was making this stir. At the same time, the first of the two newcomers to speak saw him and said, "What're you looking at, bonehead?"
The bookkeeper lowered his eyes behind the newspaper and pretended not to have heard the question. "You hear me, bonehead?" His voice carried across the room and the face of the cook appeared in the window separating the kitchen from the counter. Bartholomew Thacker remained still behind his paper. The inquisitor rose from his seat and turned in the direction of the bookkeeper, but before he could move, the waitress scurried around the counter to confront him. "He don't mean no harm, sir; he's just curious."
"Curious, huh?" he said, pushed the waitress aside and started back toward the booth where Bartholomew Thacker sat, his newspaper still hiding his face. By now the cook had come out of the kitchen, his arms akimbo.
"You get back in that kitchen," the man said. "Jed, take care of him."
"Right, Mike." The cook hurried back into the kitchen, but the second interloper paused to watch the upcoming encounter with the man in the booth.
"Ya hear me, bonehead?" "Yes, sir," he said, sotto voce.
"Then why'nt you answer me?"
"Like she said, sir, I meant no harm. I'm just here for my dinner."
"Yeah, what're you having?"
"The meatloaf special."
"Hey, Jed, ya hear that? Bonehead here's having the meatloaf special." Turning, he barked, "Jed, didn't I tell you to keep an eye on that cook?"
The other man hurried through the swinging door to the kitchen. Shouts were heard and two gunshots echoed across the diner. Bea screamed. And when Bartholomew Thacker attempted to rise, he found a gun barrel inches away from his forehead.
"Sit, bonehead. You too, sister, across from your boyfriend here. And don't neither of you move." The other fellow emerged from the kitchen and started in the direction of the occupied booth. "What the hell happened, Jed?"
"Old man was on the phone calling the cops. Had to take care of him."
"Served the bastard right," the other said and looked down at the two seated in the booth.
"Don't neither of you screw with us or you'll get the same. Got that?"
Two ashen faces nodded in unison. "What now, Mike?"
"We gotta get outta here, Jed. See if there's a back door."
Sirens could be heard in the distance as the killer raced through the kitchen door and quickly returned. "Alley's dark, can't see where it goes, but we best duck out that way."
"You go ahead, take the girl. I'll handle bonehead here and be right behind you."
"Don't hurt him," Bea said, "he don't mean no harm."
Jed yanked the waitress by the arm and through the kitchen door and the other turned toward the bookkeeper.
"I know the neighborhood and I can get you past the cops, she can't, take me" said Bartholomew Thacker.
The headlines the next day read, ESCAPED CONVICTS KILLED IN SHOOTOUT. The article noted that the two, along with an unnamed accomplice, had been downed in a hail of bullets from the police a block away from the diner. A cook had been killed in the cafe and a waitress there remained the lone survivor. The paper noted that the woman was too shaken to be interviewed at the scene.
The investigators found a government ID, a money clip with cash, a watch with a gold fob, and three postcards of Florida in the coat pocket of the deceased bookkeeper. And once it was determined he had no next of kin, his personal effects were turned over to the landlady who'd found an envelope marked "In the Event of My Demise" in a chest of drawers in his room.
In the letter written by Bartholomew Thacker he instructed the reader to retrieve an extra charcoal black suit from his small closet to be used for his funeral. Also, he wanted his watch fob in his vest pocket in full view. He left his prized bonsai trees to Mrs. Thomas Bradley, his landlady. All other assets were to be to split equally between Mrs. Bradley and Ms. Beatrice Blackwell, an employee of the Way-Fair Diner.
Mrs. Bradley and Ms. Blackwell were the only two to attend the funeral. The department where he'd worked had designated a representative to attend , but a problem with the GSA office in Washington,
D.C. had caused an untimely delay. Thus, no one from the office was present.
As it turned out, Mrs. Bradley was thrilled to receive the bonsai trees and word has it that the plants continue to thrive. Also, a photograph of Bartholomew Thacker, enlarged from his GSA ID card hangs over his favorite booth at the Way-Fair Diner. Few who frequent the café today seem to notice the picture, fewer still seem to care.