Read Online I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant - Free Book Online Page B

voice. Maybe about Frosty’s age, and with an accent. It sounds to me like an English person putting on an American accent. Or maybe it’s an American impersonating an English accent.
    â€œOh, hello,” I say again. I was so ready for no answer that I haven’t thought how I was going to approach this. “I’m sorry to bother you—”
    â€œIt’s no sweat,” he says quickly. “What can I do for you? Hey, I recognize your accent. Are you calling from London? I love London. I’m hoping to get down there before too long. Yeah. Buckingham Palace, Paddington Station, Kensington Gardens. Cool.”
    â€œOh, no. I live in Port Jackson, actually.” I sense this is not going to be easy, but I think about Mom, and the firm, fair, and friendly thing. “Look, this is probably a long shot—”
    He interrupts again. “Port Jackson. Yeah, Port Jackson is a cool place. I’ve had some fine times there in the past. Maybe some fine times still to come if you know what I mean.”
    I have no idea how to respond to this so I just say, “I’m trying to trace someone by the name of Julie McGuire. I was wondering if she still lived there.”
    He doesn’t respond for a while. Maybe he’s hung up. I’m just about to put the phone down again when I hear laughter in the background, presumably from a TV.
    Then it’s his voice again. “Julie McGuire?” he says. “You know, now that you mention her name, I do get the feeling I know her. Maybe if you could give me some clue as to what this is about it might jog my memory?”
    â€œMy brother had the number,” I say. I’m not sure how much information I should give out over the phone to a stranger, but he sounds trustworthy, and maybe that firm, fair, and friendly rule works. It would be fair to trust him unless I have a really good reason not to, and if I’m friendly I might find what I need to know. “He’s in the navy, and we were sorting out his things, and we found this number.”
    I pause to see if this jogs his memory, but he doesn’t say anything.
    â€œYou see,” I say, “he had something that belongs to Julie, and we’d like to give it back.”
    â€œWhat kind of thing?” he says.
    Okay. Maybe it’s risky to give out so much detail, but he’s really the only lead I have to Julie, so I suppose I’m going to have to chance it. “A bass guitar. An electric bass,” I say.
    There’s a pause. I hear more laughter in the background, and then a sound that is obviously clapping, but it actually makes me think of rain.
    â€œAn electric bass?” he says, and pauses again.
    Maybe he doesn’t know what an electric bass is.
    I start to say, “It’s like an electric guitar—”
    â€œOh, no,” he says. “I know what an electric bass is.”
    More clapping in the background.
    â€œYeah,” he says. “You would want to give that back. Those things can be pretty valuable. Hey, don’t tell me. It’s not a Fender is it?”
    Is this bloke beginning to get a little too curious, or is it just me being paranoid? Be fair and friendly. “You know,” I say, “does any of this ring a bell? I mean if you don’t know Julie McGuire—”
    â€œWhereabouts are you in Port Jackson?” he says.
    â€œListen,” I say. “I need to go. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
    â€œWait a minute,” he says. “I’m pretty certain I can help you. By the way, I used to live just above Memento Park. Brackett Street. You know it?”
    â€œSure.” I really don’t want to be rude to this guy, but I think I have to. To be honest, he sounds drunk. Maybe I should try him again when he’s sober. “I know it well. Listen. Does Julie still live there? I can’t really talk for long. My mom’s worried about the phone bill.”
    â€œNo