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Authors: William G. Tapply
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“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Sullivan: I had no idea…. Yes, of course I’ll tell him if I see him, but…”
He shrugged and hung up the phone. I cleared my throat. Zerk turned to glower at me. I sensed briefly what opposing quarterbacks might have felt when they stood over their center calling signals and happened to glance across the line at the Tufts middle linebacker, number 48 on your program, Xerxes Garrett.
Zerk did not look happy.
“ That Daniel F. X. Sullivan ran off with a nursery school teacher two months ago. Last heard from in Des Moines, where he used his credit card. Five kids at home, oldest nine, youngest three months.”
“Can’t say I blame the guy,” I said.
Zerk ignored me. “Two Daniel F. X. Sullivans are dead. One for several years, one was buried a week ago Saturday. Another one’s a bartender who works nights who I woke up. He wasn’t pleased. One sells maritime insurance. I spoke with his recorded voice on the answering machine. Not our man. You want me to keep going?”
“How many you got left?”
“In the Boston book? Couple of dozen, I’d say. I haven’t even dared to look at the suburban books. You really think we got the right name here?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t. But we’ve got to be sure, don’t you think?”
“I think this private investigating is boring. I think I’ll be a lawyer when I grow up instead.” He smiled at me. “I think I need some help.”
“You’re right,” I sighed. “I’ll start in the West Suburban book.”
I hung the GONE FISHIN’ sign on the door and set to work. I flipped open the thick green directory to “Sullivan.” There were six full columns of Sullivans. Somewhere around 600 listings. I counted twenty-seven Daniel Sullivans, three Sullivan, D.’s, and four D. F. Sullivans. There were no Daniel F. X. Sullivans.
I threw the book onto the floor, got up, and walked back to Zerk. By now his necktie was on the floor and his loafers were under his chair.
“Hey, Sam Spade,” I said. “Forget it.”
His ear was snuggled to the phone. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Watch what you callin’ me, boy,” he growled. His eyes darted to the telephone. “Sh,” he said to me.
“There’s too many,” I persisted. “Forget it.”
He waved his hand at me. “Yes, Mr. Sullivan?” he said into the phone. “This is Daniel F. X. Sullivan of Seventeen Walnut Drive, Roxbury?” He paused. “No, Mr. Sullivan, this is not WHDH and I’m not asking you for the cash call jackpot number. The reason I’m calling is… Ah, shit. Well, that wasn’t him, either. That guy was nine hundred years old, at least. So. You’re ready to quit already? You hardly got started.”
“I didn’t get started at all,” I said. “It’s too much. There’s too many of them.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Forget it. We’ve got other clients to worry about.”
He shrugged. “Suits me. Can I pretend to be a secretary for a while, now?”
The following morning when I got to the office, Zerk was at his desk looking at Sunday’s box scores in the Globe. He grunted at me and I grunted at him. I went over and set the coffee to brewing. It was my turn.
“Anything on the machine this morning?” I said.
“It’s only eight-thirty; I don’t start working until nine. Hurry up with that coffee, will you?”
“You could’ve put it on yourself when you got in.”
“Your turn.”
“You can wait, then.”
“See where Rice went three for four yesterday,” said Zerk. “They lose again?”
“Stanley blew a two-run lead. It’s September. They’re dead.”
I went into my office, lit a Winston, and moved manila folders around on my desk. I sat down, got up, looked out the window at the morning smog, and went out to check the coffee. It was still burbling. I went back to my desk.
A moment later Zerk barged in, holding the Globe in both of his hands and shaking it at me.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
He spread
He shrugged and hung up the phone. I cleared my throat. Zerk turned to glower at me. I sensed briefly what opposing quarterbacks might have felt when they stood over their center calling signals and happened to glance across the line at the Tufts middle linebacker, number 48 on your program, Xerxes Garrett.
Zerk did not look happy.
“ That Daniel F. X. Sullivan ran off with a nursery school teacher two months ago. Last heard from in Des Moines, where he used his credit card. Five kids at home, oldest nine, youngest three months.”
“Can’t say I blame the guy,” I said.
Zerk ignored me. “Two Daniel F. X. Sullivans are dead. One for several years, one was buried a week ago Saturday. Another one’s a bartender who works nights who I woke up. He wasn’t pleased. One sells maritime insurance. I spoke with his recorded voice on the answering machine. Not our man. You want me to keep going?”
“How many you got left?”
“In the Boston book? Couple of dozen, I’d say. I haven’t even dared to look at the suburban books. You really think we got the right name here?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t. But we’ve got to be sure, don’t you think?”
“I think this private investigating is boring. I think I’ll be a lawyer when I grow up instead.” He smiled at me. “I think I need some help.”
“You’re right,” I sighed. “I’ll start in the West Suburban book.”
I hung the GONE FISHIN’ sign on the door and set to work. I flipped open the thick green directory to “Sullivan.” There were six full columns of Sullivans. Somewhere around 600 listings. I counted twenty-seven Daniel Sullivans, three Sullivan, D.’s, and four D. F. Sullivans. There were no Daniel F. X. Sullivans.
I threw the book onto the floor, got up, and walked back to Zerk. By now his necktie was on the floor and his loafers were under his chair.
“Hey, Sam Spade,” I said. “Forget it.”
His ear was snuggled to the phone. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Watch what you callin’ me, boy,” he growled. His eyes darted to the telephone. “Sh,” he said to me.
“There’s too many,” I persisted. “Forget it.”
He waved his hand at me. “Yes, Mr. Sullivan?” he said into the phone. “This is Daniel F. X. Sullivan of Seventeen Walnut Drive, Roxbury?” He paused. “No, Mr. Sullivan, this is not WHDH and I’m not asking you for the cash call jackpot number. The reason I’m calling is… Ah, shit. Well, that wasn’t him, either. That guy was nine hundred years old, at least. So. You’re ready to quit already? You hardly got started.”
“I didn’t get started at all,” I said. “It’s too much. There’s too many of them.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Forget it. We’ve got other clients to worry about.”
He shrugged. “Suits me. Can I pretend to be a secretary for a while, now?”
The following morning when I got to the office, Zerk was at his desk looking at Sunday’s box scores in the Globe. He grunted at me and I grunted at him. I went over and set the coffee to brewing. It was my turn.
“Anything on the machine this morning?” I said.
“It’s only eight-thirty; I don’t start working until nine. Hurry up with that coffee, will you?”
“You could’ve put it on yourself when you got in.”
“Your turn.”
“You can wait, then.”
“See where Rice went three for four yesterday,” said Zerk. “They lose again?”
“Stanley blew a two-run lead. It’s September. They’re dead.”
I went into my office, lit a Winston, and moved manila folders around on my desk. I sat down, got up, looked out the window at the morning smog, and went out to check the coffee. It was still burbling. I went back to my desk.
A moment later Zerk barged in, holding the Globe in both of his hands and shaking it at me.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
He spread
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