The Vulgar Boatman by William G. Tapply

Author:William G. Tapply [Tapply, William G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784088637
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2013-06-28T21:55:00+00:00

Eleven

I WENT INTO MY office. In the precise center of my blotter, squared with the corners, was Julie’s note with the name “Christie” on it and a phone number. “You want to call this one,” Julie had noted. “She sounds eager.”

My secretary knew the difference between eager and anxious, so I was surprised at the distinct anxiety I heard in the voice that answered halfway through the second ring. “Mr. Coyne,” she said when she picked up the phone. “Is that you?”

“It is I,” I replied, with the careful attention to grammatical exactitude I typically employ when I am in the process of sobering up. “You are Christie?”

“Are you the same Mr. Coyne who was in the paper this morning? The one who knew Buddy Baron?”

“The same. And you—”

“Were you the guy who came to school a week or so ago? That I saw with Dr. Larsen and Mr. Speer?”

“Yes. That was me.” So much for good grammar.

“I heard Mr. Speer on the phone use your name.” She paused, as if she didn’t know what to say next.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m—I need to talk to somebody.”

“Tell me your last name, Christie.”

“Oh. It’s Christie Ayers. Look. Listen to me. I’m really like nervous here, Mr. Coyne. Can I talk to you?”

“About what?”

“About Buddy and Alice and stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“I really don’t want to do this on the phone. I was just hoping you could meet me somewhere.”

“Of course. Where are you now?”

“Look. There’s a little ice cream shop over in Essex. Shirley and Joe’s. It not far from here. No one knows me there. I’ve got my folks’ car. I really need to talk to somebody. I’m kinda scared, truthfully. I can’t think of anybody else.”

“You haven’t talked to anybody? What about your parents? Somebody at school? The police?”

“You don’t understand. I’ll try to explain. Will you come? Please?”

I said I would, and she gave me directions to the place in Essex.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

“No. Make it seven-thirty. I’ve gotta—you know, set it up. With my folks.”

“Fine,” I said. “Just be careful.”

“Anyway,” she said, after I repeated her directions back to her, “you’ve got some ideas about who killed Buddy, huh?”

“What makes you say that?”

“That thing in the paper. When you wouldn’t comment. That’s like a hint, right? That’s the way the cops do when they’re just about ready to arrest some guy. They say, ‘No comment.’”

“Christie, you can’t believe everything you read.”

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” she said.

After we hung up, I called Sylvie, who was now back in town. “Time to redeem that raincheck on monkfish,” I said.

“Do you promise this time?”

“I promise.”

I swung around to Sylvie’s condo, double-parked on Beacon Street, and went in to get her. She buzzed me up, and when I got to her door I rapped lightly on it. She opened it a crack, gave me a green-eyed grin, unlatched the chain, and let me in. She was wearing one of those frilly little one-piece undergarments like Frederick’s of Hollywood advertises in the backs of magazines.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.