Epitaph: A Novel by James Siegel

Author:James Siegel [Siegel, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Suspense, Private investigators, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Espionage, Thrillers, New York, New York (State), Physicians
ISBN: 0446678708
Publisher: Mysterious Press
Published: 2003-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

e p i t a p h

159

“It’s in the book.”

“Yeah. But who—?”

“What kind of inheritance?” Mr. Shankin interrupted.

“A relative or something? What about it, am I rich or what?”

“Mr. Shankin, is this a local call?”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re not in Florida anymore?”

“Not unless Florida’s local.”

“But you were in Florida?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You sent a postcard to a friend. Mr. Greeman—”

“Greely.”

“Of course, Greely, and you put a return address on it.”

“So?”

“That address doesn’t exist. ”

“So I made a mistake. What’s the difference. Do I have money coming to me or don’t I . . . ?”

“How long you been back?”

“Oh . . . six months I suppose.”

“Six months—and not even a hello to your old friend Mr. Greely?”

“As a matter of fact, I said hello to my old friend Mr.

Greely today. And old friend Mr. Greely told me about new friend William. He said you were a lawyer and that you had a nice present for me. An inheritance. So what about it, what about this inheritance . . . ?”

“There isn’t any.”

“Come again?”

“I’m not a lawyer. There isn’t any inheritance.”

“Okay. There isn’t any inheritance. You just like to tell 160

J a m e s S i e g e l

people there’s an inheritance. Why do you do that exactly?”

“It’s just a story I made up. I needed to find you. I have.”

“Find me. What for?”

“For the same reason Jean Goldblum wanted to find you. Did he?”

“Who’s Jean Goldblum?”

“Guess not.”

“Who’s Jean Goldblum? And who are you? You’re not a lawyer, fine. Who are you?”

“Could we meet someplace and talk about it?” He wanted to see him in the flesh; he suddenly felt a real need to do that.

“What’s wrong with talking on the phone?”

Yes, what was wrong with talking on the phone? People talked on the phone every day, all sorts of things got done on the phone. And it was raining cats and dogs outside, that too. It’s just that he’d been out chasing phantoms in places called Magnolia Drive and Coral Avenue and Beaumont Street, and now he wanted to press some flesh.

“It’s a little complicated, Mr. Shankin. I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“Oh yeah?” A drawn-in breath, a slight grunt, William could almost hear his fingers drumming on an armrest.

“Okay—but you’ll have to come here—I’ve got a bum leg. You want to talk to me about something, you’ve got to come here.”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“Ten-thirty-two Cherry Avenue in Whitestone. Know e p i t a p h

161

where that is? The house at the end of the block. You know where Whitestone is?”

“Yeah, I’ll find it. In an hour?”

“Okay, in an hour. Why not?”

Yeah, why not.

William put away his lists and tucked away his theories, each and every one of them, from the half-baked ones to the seriously delusional ones. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to search for a beginning after all. Perhaps he was being given the ending. Maybe he’d been on the proverbial wild-goose chase and perhaps everyone had known it but him.

Arthur Shankin was alive and well and living in Whitestone.

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