The Black Mercedes by Sue Latham A balmy February evening around 5:00
Hershel Hornby mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and congratulated himself on yet another day of a job well done. Although it was February, it was almost 80°. But everything in the garage was ship-shape. Well, almost. He stooped to pick up a scrap of paper. Hershel had been the building manager here for slightly more than a year. In that time, he had transformed this elderly high-rise from a slightly seedy old pile into a grande dame. He had certainly earned a game or two of Solitaire in his office—behind closed doors, naturally—and then he was going to go home and pour himself an ice-cold glass of White Zinfandel. But then he saw old Mrs. Templeman striding toward him purposefully. An encounter with Mrs. Templeman was never a good thing. “Mr. Hornby!” she screeched. “Mr. Hornby, I need a word with you.” Hershel took a deep breath and mustered up his sincerest smile. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Templeman?” “Come here please, Mr. Hornby. Please explain this.” She was pointing indignantly to a car that was parked in a numbered space. It was a black Mercedes, a few years old, and it was covered with a thick layer of dust. “It’s just a car, Mrs. Templeman,” he said. “Don’t get smart with me, young man. I can see that it’s a car.” She wiped a finger across the car’s dusty surface and held it up inches from his face. “How do you explain this?” “You know, Mrs. Templeman,” he explained patiently, “there are a lot of property owners in this building who keep a principal residence somewhere else and are only here occasionally. They are entitled to the same parking spaces as anyone else. If you look around you will see plenty of cars here in the garage that are a little dusty.” “Young man, this car has not been moved in almost a year. Look!” she said pointing to the car’s license plate. With dismay, Hornby realized she was right. The car had a paper dealer’s tag dated the previous May. This car had been sitting here, in a prime parking space, for eight months. “When I asked you sometime back about a more convenient parking space, you told me there were none available. I’m not as young as I used to be, Mr. Hornby. I put in a request for a closer parking space more than a year ago. Is it your policy to give the best parking spaces to people who are never here? When you get to be my age, maybe you will be a little more understanding.” She waved a cane to emphasize