The Dutch Blue Error by William G. Tapply

Author:William G. Tapply [Tapply, William G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784088590
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2013-06-28T21:55:00+00:00

10

I CALLED CHARLIE MCDEVITT in the middle of the morning to make a date for lunch. His choice of restaurants. We agreed to meet at the Common by the subway entrance.

Then I called Deborah’s office.

“Colonial Properties of Concord. This is Darlene. May I help you?”

I asked for Ms. Martinelli, emphasizing the miz.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“You may say it’s Brady Coyne.”

“One moment, please.”

I heard myself being put on hold. Then my ear was assaulted with elevator music. The Ray Coniff chorus, it sounded like, performing their own distinctive rendition of a medley of Beatles tunes. “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” in waltz time. A neat segue into an arrangement of “Eleanor Rigby” that would have done Lawrence Welk proud.

Darlene came back on the phone, interrupting a lullaby version of “Tax Man.” “Deborah can’t come to the phone right now. May I have her return your call? Or would you care to leave a message?”

“Tell her she should get a Stan Getz tape if she’s going to make people listen to music when they’re on hold,” I said. “And just tell her I called.”

“How do you spell that please?”

“C-o-y-n-e.”

“No, the other name.”

“Oh. G-e-t-z. Stan Getz. Tenor sax. You never heard of Stan Getz?”

“I’ll give her your message, Mr. Coyne.”

I reminded myself to congratulate Deborah on the efficiency of her secretary. Humorless, but efficient. Darlene impressed me as one of those women who would sniff and wrinkle her chin if a man winked at her.

I climbed out of the murk of the subway landing into the brilliant October noon sunshine. Tremont Street swarmed with secretaries and executives hurrying to the Union Oyster House and Jake Wirth’s for lunch. The young matrons of summer, tugging their ice-cream-dirty toddlers toward the swan boats, had deserted the Common. In their place milled a mix of elderly ladies bearing shopping bags like fragile trophies, college students lolling on the benches, their faces turned to the sun, and old men feeding popcorn to the pigeons. I blinked a couple of times, looked around, and finally located Charlie. He was standing, deep in conversation with a younger man who was keeping watch over a square metal pushcart, at the point where the paths that intersect the Common converge. A sign on the pushcart promised KING SIZE FRANKS AND KRAUT; 75¢.

Charlie saw me and waved me over.

“Brady Coyne,” he said when I was standing beside him, “Johnny Pilarski.”

Pilarski gave me a lopsided grin from the depths of his thick, black beard and shoved out his hand. He wore sunglasses with the reflector lenses that the state troopers who patrol the Mass Pike favor. I saw the image of myself mirrored in each lens.

“Nice to meetcha, Mr. Coyne,” said Pilarski, who then returned his attention to Charlie. “Fifty percent suits me, Mr. Mac. I’m satisfied with fifty percent. It covers it, you know?”

Charlie was shaking his head and smiling. “You take what you can get in this world, Johnny.”

Pilarski held up his hand. “No. You take what you deserve. No more, no less.

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