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Authors: JEFFREY COHEN
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Edison.
Suddenly, Ansella wasn’t just a dead guy to me anymore. I hadn’t actually considered his life before, well, his death, until now, and it was gnawing at me. The guy had died under my roof, if you wanted to see it that way. I owed it to him to find out a little bit more about who he was.
I didn’t want to bother his wife. I decided to call the office where he had worked, Mutual Life, Home, and Auto, in Bridgewater. I didn’t know who his supervisor was, so I asked for the actuarial department, where the obit mentioned (at great length) Ansella had been a vice president.
It would have been, let’s say, awkward to explain to the receptionist that I was the guy in whose theatre Vincent had been murdered, so I decided on a slightly less scrupulous approach. Okay, I lied outright.
“Hi, this is Elliot Freed of the Press Digest ,” I said, making up the name of a newspaper on the spot, and mumbling just a bit. “I’m following up on the death of Vincent Ansella, and I’m wondering who I should be talking to there.” Let them decide.
“Hold on,” the receptionist said, no doubt looking for someone to take this problem off her hands. I waited through two recorded explanations of an exciting new term life product while she no doubt ran around the office trying to foist me off on the least suspecting actuary.
Just when I was considering getting the insurance, but unsure who my beneficiary would be, the phone clicked back to life. “This is Marcy Resnick,” a rather tentative voice said. “Is there some way I can help you?”
I reiterated the bogus story about being with a newspaper, although I think this time I was working for the News Digest . I’d have to work at my phony profession a little more diligently next time. “I’m just trying to get some background on Mr. Ansella,” I added. “We’re considering running a follow-up piece.” I felt the “considering” would ease the blow when Ms. Resnick went to pick up her fictional newspaper the next morning and found no fictional article there. No doubt she would assume that not only was the story unworthy of print, but the company had decided to fold the whole publication, having decided that the public no longer had a right to know anything. It’s a philosophy that has worked wonders at Fox News.
“Well, I don’t know what I could tell you,” she said. “We weren’t exactly close friends.”
“Did he have any close friends at the office?”
“Not really,” Resnick said. “I don’t like to say it, with him being gone, and all . . .”
Oh, go ahead and say it, I thought.
“. . . Vincent wasn’t really the kind of guy who told you much about himself,” she continued. “He was very friendly, but he kept it casual. Everybody liked him.”
“So you don’t know much about him, I guess,” I said. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for, anyway, and might as well terminate this conversation.
“No, not much he ever told me,” she answered. “Listen, I don’t like talking this way on company time. Do you want to meet for lunch or something?”
That was just what I needed, an hour’s worth of conversation with a woman who didn’t know anything about the subject I wasn’t sure what to ask about. Not to mention, I’d already eaten lunch. There had to be some way to get out of this gracefully.
“Well, I don’t want to take up your time,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother. I was going to go for lunch in a half hour, anyway.”
I sighed, but inwardly. “Why don’t you give me the directions? ” I asked.
Moe Baxter wasn’t pleased to see me hanging around his auto repair shop on Edison Avenue. “You leeching off me again, Freed?” He moaned, his voice a rusty hinge. “Why don’t you just buy a car?”
“Don’t you see how this is a better deal for both of us, Moe?” I grinned. He was going to give in, like he always did, but we had a ritual to perform, and Moe was giving it his all. “I get the ride I need
Suddenly, Ansella wasn’t just a dead guy to me anymore. I hadn’t actually considered his life before, well, his death, until now, and it was gnawing at me. The guy had died under my roof, if you wanted to see it that way. I owed it to him to find out a little bit more about who he was.
I didn’t want to bother his wife. I decided to call the office where he had worked, Mutual Life, Home, and Auto, in Bridgewater. I didn’t know who his supervisor was, so I asked for the actuarial department, where the obit mentioned (at great length) Ansella had been a vice president.
It would have been, let’s say, awkward to explain to the receptionist that I was the guy in whose theatre Vincent had been murdered, so I decided on a slightly less scrupulous approach. Okay, I lied outright.
“Hi, this is Elliot Freed of the Press Digest ,” I said, making up the name of a newspaper on the spot, and mumbling just a bit. “I’m following up on the death of Vincent Ansella, and I’m wondering who I should be talking to there.” Let them decide.
“Hold on,” the receptionist said, no doubt looking for someone to take this problem off her hands. I waited through two recorded explanations of an exciting new term life product while she no doubt ran around the office trying to foist me off on the least suspecting actuary.
Just when I was considering getting the insurance, but unsure who my beneficiary would be, the phone clicked back to life. “This is Marcy Resnick,” a rather tentative voice said. “Is there some way I can help you?”
I reiterated the bogus story about being with a newspaper, although I think this time I was working for the News Digest . I’d have to work at my phony profession a little more diligently next time. “I’m just trying to get some background on Mr. Ansella,” I added. “We’re considering running a follow-up piece.” I felt the “considering” would ease the blow when Ms. Resnick went to pick up her fictional newspaper the next morning and found no fictional article there. No doubt she would assume that not only was the story unworthy of print, but the company had decided to fold the whole publication, having decided that the public no longer had a right to know anything. It’s a philosophy that has worked wonders at Fox News.
“Well, I don’t know what I could tell you,” she said. “We weren’t exactly close friends.”
“Did he have any close friends at the office?”
“Not really,” Resnick said. “I don’t like to say it, with him being gone, and all . . .”
Oh, go ahead and say it, I thought.
“. . . Vincent wasn’t really the kind of guy who told you much about himself,” she continued. “He was very friendly, but he kept it casual. Everybody liked him.”
“So you don’t know much about him, I guess,” I said. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for, anyway, and might as well terminate this conversation.
“No, not much he ever told me,” she answered. “Listen, I don’t like talking this way on company time. Do you want to meet for lunch or something?”
That was just what I needed, an hour’s worth of conversation with a woman who didn’t know anything about the subject I wasn’t sure what to ask about. Not to mention, I’d already eaten lunch. There had to be some way to get out of this gracefully.
“Well, I don’t want to take up your time,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother. I was going to go for lunch in a half hour, anyway.”
I sighed, but inwardly. “Why don’t you give me the directions? ” I asked.
Moe Baxter wasn’t pleased to see me hanging around his auto repair shop on Edison Avenue. “You leeching off me again, Freed?” He moaned, his voice a rusty hinge. “Why don’t you just buy a car?”
“Don’t you see how this is a better deal for both of us, Moe?” I grinned. He was going to give in, like he always did, but we had a ritual to perform, and Moe was giving it his all. “I get the ride I need
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