that will help you in your investigation.”
“I work for the county,” I said.
“Of course you do, Sheriff,” said Tracy. “We appreciate that. I’m only saying the owners are prepared to be helpful to those who are helpful to them. You understand, I’m sure.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I do understand.”
Tracy pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “You’ll keep me informed,” he said.
“Are there going to be more fellows like that Eugene coming around?” I asked.
“I told you, Sheriff,” said Logan Tracy, “I don’t know anything about anybody by that name.”
I took a look at Tracy’s card. It had his name on it, and in the corner the name Atlantic Casualty, and a telephone number. There was no street address.
“Where is your office?” I asked Tracy.
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean?” I said. “How do you mean? There’s no address here. On your card. No address. Where’s your office?”
“New York.”
“New York’s a big place,” I said.
“We’re downtown,” Tracy said.
He started toward the door of the study. The man who had been standing there had gone. Emory O’Connor had left too, it looked like. He wasn’t in the hall where he’d been waiting, and when I left the house, his car wasn’t there.
Did I enjoy being talked to like the dumbest boy in the third grade by that fellow with his fancy leather jacket and his little business card that not even the dumbest boy in the third grade would believe? Not really. But I don’t mind. In sheriffing, you ain’t there to show everybody you’re the smartest fellow in the room. You’re there to do your job, and sometimes you do it better if you look ten degrees cooler in the top story than you really are. That way, instead of talking, you shut up and listen, and watch. That way, you ask dumb questions, and sometimes it’s the answers to the dumb questions that are interesting — and the no-answers.
So no, I didn’t mind Mr. Tracy. Wingate used to say: Everybody thinks you’ve got to come out on top. You don’t. All you’ve got to do is do your job.
That was pure Wingate. On sheriffing he ran a kind of — what is it where everybody sits around and asks questions and nobody ever answers them? A seminar. Wingate ran a kind of a seminar on sheriffing. The end was always the same: do your job. All you have to do is do your job. But Wingate never said what the job was. You were supposed to figure that out on your own. On your own, but Wingate’s way.
Deputy Keen was at the office when I got back from the Russians’ house. He had talked to the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi about Sean. It sounded like he’d had better luck with her than I did.
“She ain’t a bad kid, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “Fucking Superboy’s got her brainwashed.”
“Does she say where he is?”
“No,” said Lyle. “She don’t know where he is. She don’t even see that much of him. He don’t really live there, with her. He checks in every few days with a case of beer and a bunch of dope, and they, you know, they get it on all day and all night. Then he takes off. She thinks he’s going to marry her.”
“Is that what she says?”
“She don’t have to say it. She’s only just eighteen, you know. She’s had a tough time. Her dad hit on her; when he wasn’t hitting on her he was beating her up. She didn’t finish school. Working at Wendy’s, there. One shithead guy after another. She’s going nowhere, and she knows it. Here comes Superboy. He’s got a job, he’s got a little money in his pocket. Sometimes he’ll change his socks, take a shower, even. He looks good to Crystal.”
“I guess he does.”
“She’s a good kid,” Lyle went on. “She loves that big dog. Jackson. What a monster. Did you see him? I don’t know why she calls him Jackson. I’ll have to ask her. I’m going back out there later, see she’s okay. She could use a break, you know? And instead she gets Superboy. That
“I work for the county,” I said.
“Of course you do, Sheriff,” said Tracy. “We appreciate that. I’m only saying the owners are prepared to be helpful to those who are helpful to them. You understand, I’m sure.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I do understand.”
Tracy pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “You’ll keep me informed,” he said.
“Are there going to be more fellows like that Eugene coming around?” I asked.
“I told you, Sheriff,” said Logan Tracy, “I don’t know anything about anybody by that name.”
I took a look at Tracy’s card. It had his name on it, and in the corner the name Atlantic Casualty, and a telephone number. There was no street address.
“Where is your office?” I asked Tracy.
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean?” I said. “How do you mean? There’s no address here. On your card. No address. Where’s your office?”
“New York.”
“New York’s a big place,” I said.
“We’re downtown,” Tracy said.
He started toward the door of the study. The man who had been standing there had gone. Emory O’Connor had left too, it looked like. He wasn’t in the hall where he’d been waiting, and when I left the house, his car wasn’t there.
Did I enjoy being talked to like the dumbest boy in the third grade by that fellow with his fancy leather jacket and his little business card that not even the dumbest boy in the third grade would believe? Not really. But I don’t mind. In sheriffing, you ain’t there to show everybody you’re the smartest fellow in the room. You’re there to do your job, and sometimes you do it better if you look ten degrees cooler in the top story than you really are. That way, instead of talking, you shut up and listen, and watch. That way, you ask dumb questions, and sometimes it’s the answers to the dumb questions that are interesting — and the no-answers.
So no, I didn’t mind Mr. Tracy. Wingate used to say: Everybody thinks you’ve got to come out on top. You don’t. All you’ve got to do is do your job.
That was pure Wingate. On sheriffing he ran a kind of — what is it where everybody sits around and asks questions and nobody ever answers them? A seminar. Wingate ran a kind of a seminar on sheriffing. The end was always the same: do your job. All you have to do is do your job. But Wingate never said what the job was. You were supposed to figure that out on your own. On your own, but Wingate’s way.
Deputy Keen was at the office when I got back from the Russians’ house. He had talked to the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi about Sean. It sounded like he’d had better luck with her than I did.
“She ain’t a bad kid, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “Fucking Superboy’s got her brainwashed.”
“Does she say where he is?”
“No,” said Lyle. “She don’t know where he is. She don’t even see that much of him. He don’t really live there, with her. He checks in every few days with a case of beer and a bunch of dope, and they, you know, they get it on all day and all night. Then he takes off. She thinks he’s going to marry her.”
“Is that what she says?”
“She don’t have to say it. She’s only just eighteen, you know. She’s had a tough time. Her dad hit on her; when he wasn’t hitting on her he was beating her up. She didn’t finish school. Working at Wendy’s, there. One shithead guy after another. She’s going nowhere, and she knows it. Here comes Superboy. He’s got a job, he’s got a little money in his pocket. Sometimes he’ll change his socks, take a shower, even. He looks good to Crystal.”
“I guess he does.”
“She’s a good kid,” Lyle went on. “She loves that big dog. Jackson. What a monster. Did you see him? I don’t know why she calls him Jackson. I’ll have to ask her. I’m going back out there later, see she’s okay. She could use a break, you know? And instead she gets Superboy. That
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