Read Online A Fine Line by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online
Authors: William G. Tapply
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held out my hand. “Brady Coyne.”
He shook my hand. “I’m Phil,” he said. “So how come you got Henry? Ethan brings this mutt to work with him sometimes. Nice dog. Knows how to behave. Customers like him.”
“Are you the owner?” I said.
“Of this place?” He rolled his eyes. “Nah. Not me. I couldn’t afford it. We don’t make any money here. Conrad, the guy who owns it, he collects this stuff. I think the store is some kind of tax thing. We get a dozen people in here in a day, we’ve had a good day, and most of ’em don’t buy anything. Conrad sells some stuff on the Internet, I guess. Mainly, this is his collection. You lookin’ for something?”
“I was hoping to catch Ethan,” I said. “Return Henry to him.”
“Ethan works nights,” said Phil. “Comes on at six.”
“Is he scheduled to be here tonight?”
“Not tonight.” He shrugged. “He was supposed to be here last night, but he never showed up.”
“No?” I said. “What happened?”
“Well, shit, man, I don’t know what happened. He just didn’t show up. I was here. I can’t leave ’til Ethan gets here, you know? I waited ’til close to seven, and no Ethan. So I called Conrad—that’s the owner, Conrad Henshall—and finally he came in so I could go home.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“What, Ethan not showing up?”
I nodded.
“No. He’s pretty reliable usually.”
“Did he call in last night, do you know?”
“He didn’t call me,” said Phil, “and Conrad didn’t seem to know anything about it.” Phil adjusted his glasses and frowned at me. “You must know what’s going on. I mean, you’re taking care of his dog, right? So what’s up with Ethan?”
“I just want to return his dog,” I said. I fished one of my business cards from my wallet and gave it to Phil. “If you hear from Ethan, tell him to give me a call, will you?”
Phil took my card and looked at it. “Lawyer, huh?”
I nodded.
“Ethan in some kind of trouble?”
“He’s in trouble with me,” I said. “I’m getting sick of taking care of his dog.”
“Aw,” said Phil, “Henry’s a good old pooch.”
“You want to watch him for a while? He’s all yours.”
Phil held up both hands. “Hey, not me, man.”
I nodded. “That’s what everybody says.”
Outside the store I paused to light a cigarette.
Then I heard a soft voice say, “Sir?”
I turned. A large man wearing yellow-tinted glasses and an expensive-looking gray suit was standing there. He seemed to have emerged from the alley beside the store. He was squinting at me through his glasses.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“I don’t believe so,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you. My name is Conrad Henshall.”
I nodded. “You own this place?”
“That I do.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer. I’m looking for Ethan Duffy. I understand he works here.”
“Mr. Duffy no longer works here,” he said.
“Oh? Your man in there, Phil, he told me—”
“Philip is the employee. I am the owner. I don’t make it a practice to confide in my employees.”
“Did Ethan quit, or did you fire him?”
“May I ask you what difference it makes?”
“Ethan’s father died last night.”
Henshall looked at me from behind his yellow-tinted glasses, as if he expected me to elaborate.
Instead, I said, “Have you been in touch with Ethan since yesterday?”
“As I told you, sir,” he said, “young Mr. Duffy no longer works for me.”
“Does that mean you haven’t talked with him?”
“It means I’d have no reason to talk with him.”
“And this is what you told the police?”
He smiled. He had a small, rather unpleasant mouth, and his smile suggested neither humor nor good will. “If I hadtold the police something different, it would mean I was lying either to you or to them, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded. “I guess it would.” I fished out a business card and gave it to him. “If you
He shook my hand. “I’m Phil,” he said. “So how come you got Henry? Ethan brings this mutt to work with him sometimes. Nice dog. Knows how to behave. Customers like him.”
“Are you the owner?” I said.
“Of this place?” He rolled his eyes. “Nah. Not me. I couldn’t afford it. We don’t make any money here. Conrad, the guy who owns it, he collects this stuff. I think the store is some kind of tax thing. We get a dozen people in here in a day, we’ve had a good day, and most of ’em don’t buy anything. Conrad sells some stuff on the Internet, I guess. Mainly, this is his collection. You lookin’ for something?”
“I was hoping to catch Ethan,” I said. “Return Henry to him.”
“Ethan works nights,” said Phil. “Comes on at six.”
“Is he scheduled to be here tonight?”
“Not tonight.” He shrugged. “He was supposed to be here last night, but he never showed up.”
“No?” I said. “What happened?”
“Well, shit, man, I don’t know what happened. He just didn’t show up. I was here. I can’t leave ’til Ethan gets here, you know? I waited ’til close to seven, and no Ethan. So I called Conrad—that’s the owner, Conrad Henshall—and finally he came in so I could go home.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“What, Ethan not showing up?”
I nodded.
“No. He’s pretty reliable usually.”
“Did he call in last night, do you know?”
“He didn’t call me,” said Phil, “and Conrad didn’t seem to know anything about it.” Phil adjusted his glasses and frowned at me. “You must know what’s going on. I mean, you’re taking care of his dog, right? So what’s up with Ethan?”
“I just want to return his dog,” I said. I fished one of my business cards from my wallet and gave it to Phil. “If you hear from Ethan, tell him to give me a call, will you?”
Phil took my card and looked at it. “Lawyer, huh?”
I nodded.
“Ethan in some kind of trouble?”
“He’s in trouble with me,” I said. “I’m getting sick of taking care of his dog.”
“Aw,” said Phil, “Henry’s a good old pooch.”
“You want to watch him for a while? He’s all yours.”
Phil held up both hands. “Hey, not me, man.”
I nodded. “That’s what everybody says.”
Outside the store I paused to light a cigarette.
Then I heard a soft voice say, “Sir?”
I turned. A large man wearing yellow-tinted glasses and an expensive-looking gray suit was standing there. He seemed to have emerged from the alley beside the store. He was squinting at me through his glasses.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“I don’t believe so,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you. My name is Conrad Henshall.”
I nodded. “You own this place?”
“That I do.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer. I’m looking for Ethan Duffy. I understand he works here.”
“Mr. Duffy no longer works here,” he said.
“Oh? Your man in there, Phil, he told me—”
“Philip is the employee. I am the owner. I don’t make it a practice to confide in my employees.”
“Did Ethan quit, or did you fire him?”
“May I ask you what difference it makes?”
“Ethan’s father died last night.”
Henshall looked at me from behind his yellow-tinted glasses, as if he expected me to elaborate.
Instead, I said, “Have you been in touch with Ethan since yesterday?”
“As I told you, sir,” he said, “young Mr. Duffy no longer works for me.”
“Does that mean you haven’t talked with him?”
“It means I’d have no reason to talk with him.”
“And this is what you told the police?”
He smiled. He had a small, rather unpleasant mouth, and his smile suggested neither humor nor good will. “If I hadtold the police something different, it would mean I was lying either to you or to them, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded. “I guess it would.” I fished out a business card and gave it to him. “If you
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