Carlisle, Pennsylvania. -- My partner and I had been working the late shift out of public services in the library. It had been a rough night. Two CD-ROM stations had gone down and an army of freshman had been clamoring for arcane business statistics for Zimbabwe and Malagasay. Then there was that question about Joseph Conrad's references to Virginia Woolf. Someone wanted to know the annual snowfall of Nepal. Sometimes it seemed there were no easy answers. Even during National Library Week there were more queries than ever.

We fielded the questions, brought the CD-ROM stations back online and logged the ref stats. At 10:34, we turned the desk over to a reference student, grabbed our hats and stepped out into the night. My partner mumbled a parting word. A moment later and he had slipped into the inky blackness.

I looked up at the stars. It was one of those wild and beautiful evenings -- cold and clear with a surprisingly icy April wind ripping through the city. I lighted a cigarette and turned up my collar. My steps echoed in the darkness. A good night, I thought, we had done our job and done it well. Funny that after all these years I still got a kick out of the reference desk.

I found my car and fired the engine. Two blocks over, I pulled in at a convenience store. I tossed my cigarette and stepped inside.

From the back of the store, angry voices erupted. It didn't take long to size up the situation. Two Caucasian males were engaged in a heated exchange near the coffee machine. One stood about six feet and a slender 165 pounds. He sported a tattoo on his left forearm and a scar on his right cheek. The other was shorter, heavier, powerfully built, needed a shave. Both appeared to be in their late twenties. Their argument was close to blows.

"Don't give me any of that," shouted the taller one. "I know what I'm talking about. There is no way that the County of Los Angeles has that large of a population of Ukrainians. We are not talking about Latinos or Serbs, you know. There just ain't that many Ukrainians around L.A. I grew up there."

I eased myself over to the coffee machine. I poured a cup. After years in the business, I knew it was important to move quickly and cautiously. Timing was everything.

"So you're saying that I am wrong," the shorter man growled. He was standing closer now, with his finger in the other man's face. "That I'm a jerk that don't know what he's talking about, eh?" He added some expletives. "You are nothing but a ##X %% % $#### . . ."

"Now, now," interrupted the store owner, trying to keep space between the two with ineffectual gestures. "I run a nice place here. There is no reason to get riled up about this. I don't want no trouble."

"You stay out of this," snapped the taller one.

"A nice little discussion," I interrupted, putting down the coffee pot. Then turning to the owner, "You are having your share of difficulties tonight, aren't you, Joe."

The two combatants turned around, startled. They hadn't noticed my entrance. The owner smiled, but his eyes wore a worried look. "Hey, it's good to see you, Mr. Mac. Just a friendly disagreement," he replied, offering me a couple of creamers. "I think everything is gonna to be all right."

I turned to the two and tried to smile. "Hello, men," I said, "I couldn't help overhearing your, uhm, discussion."

The shorter man's eyes narrowed. "Listen, you," he said, "you keep your face out of other people's business.'

"I'll do that, my friend, I'll do that," I said.

tudy the eyes -- always study the eyes. I lowered my voice.

The two eyed me angrily. They had been having a little fun hating each other, and I was busting it up. Try to bring 'em down easy, I told myself. Never let a patron get out of control. Act friendly and study the eyes -- always study the eyes. I lowered my voice.

"I thought that you might like to know that the kind of demographic information that you two are arguing about is all covered in statistical information available in any of the new census CD-ROM products."

"Man, what are you talking about," spoke up the taller, defensive but interested.

"You know," I answered, "computers. Take the U.S. Counties on CD-ROM, for instance. Percentages and numbers of ethnicity, annual incomes, occupations for groups -- it's all there and more."

"By the way," I added. "You should both know that there are only about 11,300 Ukrainians living in the county of Los Angeles according to the latest census -- not too many when you realize that there are over 152,000 people of Italian ancestry there. Still

that is a significant number. Remember there are only 2,395 Ukrainians living in nearby Orange County."

The two stood staring. The shorter man shifted uncomfortably.

"There is no reason," I went on softly, "for two friends to come to blows over a question that can be answered easily and quickly at any library." I leaned against the counter.

"Hey, how come you know so much about this?" the other man asked. "You a cop or something?"

"Let's just say," I answered, "that I make it my business to know."

He stared. Then a look of recognition spread over his face. "You're some kind of librarian," he said.

"You might call me that," I answered. I paused, not wanting to push my luck too far. "I simply like folks to have the right information -- to have their facts straight, if you know what I mean. You see, libraries are the places to find answers for all kinds of questions. They have the latest figures, the best fiction and an amazing array of information. Whether you're settling an argument or considering a career change, libraries give you what you need when you need it, all at a reasonable cost -- free."

The two looked a little bewildered but relieved.

"Maybe he's right," said the taller one. He grinned crookedly and stepped back a little from his antagonist. "Maybe we ought to settle this argument down the street at the library. It don't make much sense to go fighting with one another."

The shorter man glanced over to me. He was quiet for a moment. Some of the color drained out of his face. "OK," he said. "Let's go." The two turned and made for the door.

Joe watched them go, then turned to me. It had all happened so quickly. Minutes before there had been angry words; all was now quiet. "How can I thank you?" he said with a grin. He was visibly relieved. "It's folk like you that keep this city from falling to pieces."

I tried to pay for the coffee, but he waved my money aside. I glanced out the window.

"Hey, you know something," he added. "I wish this town could afford a hundred extra librarians, just to keep folks informed and to keep misinformation and ignorance off the streets."

"We're just doing our job, Joe," I said dryly. "We do what we can. There is no reason to make too big a deal about it."

"Nonsense," he countered. Why, I'd hire an off-duty librarian right here for my business, if I could afford it. You guys are the greatest."

"Thanks, Joe," I said as I turned to go. "Your support means a lot. I'll be seeing ya."

I looked up at the stars. I pulled down my hat and turned up my collar as the wind tore out of the April darkness.

Steve McKinzie spends too much time in the Mystery Section of his library. This is National Library Week.

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