Read Online The Glendower Legacy by Thomas Gifford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Gifford
Ads: Link
of routine questions and thanks for my cooperation. Period.”
“So, don’t let it bother you. It’s over.”
“It’s that Bishop woman. She tricked me, she made it seem as if I’m somehow involved. She’s devious and she doesn’t give a damn, and tonight everybody in Boston’s going to see the goddamn interview and start wondering, why was the kid so desperate—her word —desperate to see me.” They crossed the Square, stopped for a moment in the shelter of the University Theatre marquee. Brennan stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, puffed and coughed. “She’s a breaker,” Chandler went on, “a wrecker, some women just can’t avoid it … it’s their nature.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brennan muttered impatiently, survivor of two marriages, one to an English actress, the other to a Charlottesville belle. “Did you see Robin and Marian?”
“Audrey Hepburn,” Chandler said wearily. “I know, I know …”
“Well, I could take a lot of bullshit from that kind of woman—tough, independent, intelligent, beautiful—”
“Who says she’s intelligent?”
“It’s all over her, for God’s sake. She handles herself well—and she makes a good living! As my sainted Irish mother would have said … did say, in regard to my immortal first wife, Brenda the Star.” He punched Chandler in the arm. “Don’t let her get to you. Cheer up!”
Chandler shrugged impatiently.
“Look,” said Brennan, “let’s go have a drink and a dinner at Chez Dreyfus. Do you good—I’ll tell you a new joke!”
“No, I’m worn out, I’m just going to pig out at home, look at a stroke book and go to bed.” Chandler sighed, peering into the steady rain that was heavier now, as it grew darker. “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken to writing for stroke books—”
“Just so you don’t pose—”
“No, I’ve got that Playboy piece … ‘The Real American Revolution,’ that’s the latest title. Dubious scholarship among the tits and beavers.”
“I hate celebrity academics,” Brennan allowed. They turned the corner by the church and headed toward the restaurant, jockeying for position beneath the single umbrella.
“You know,” Chandler mused slowly, “I wish I had been there when he came to my office, I keep turning it over in my mind, wondering … he did say something to me, last week I think, but I can’t quite get hold of it—it was no big deal, no clue, but he just came up after the lecture, looking at me through the hippie glasses, said he had something he wanted to show me. He was shy about it, he said something … wait, I’ve got it, he said I wouldn’t believe it but I had to authenticate it!” He stopped and pinched his lower lip together: “That’s it, something he wanted me to authenticate! Hugh, that’s pretty damn strange … what the hell would a kid like that have that needed an authentication?”
“Document, maybe? Some kind of historical thingy, you mean?”
“Something old or something with a questionable pedigree … maybe a possible forgery? God, it’s weird, the way it just came back to me.”
“So Polly Bishop is no fool, my lad. She said you knew something and she was right—”
“But it couldn’t have anything to do with the murder—”
“Well, you never know, do you?”
In front of Chez Dreyfus, Brennan stopped him again.
“Let me lighten your day,” he said.
“A joke,” Chandler said grimly. “You’re going to tell me a joke …”
“An English professor is out on the town with three graduate students. Ahead of them they see a gathering of ladies of the night-hookers, to you. The professor sets a problem. If a gathering of geese is a gaggle, lions a pride, sheep a flock, then what is a congregation of hookers? Well, being bright lads and steeped in literary allusions, the answers were snappy. Number One shakes his head, strokes his chin, suggests … ‘a volume of trollops’! Which is pretty damn good. But Number Two tops him with ‘a jam of
“So, don’t let it bother you. It’s over.”
“It’s that Bishop woman. She tricked me, she made it seem as if I’m somehow involved. She’s devious and she doesn’t give a damn, and tonight everybody in Boston’s going to see the goddamn interview and start wondering, why was the kid so desperate—her word —desperate to see me.” They crossed the Square, stopped for a moment in the shelter of the University Theatre marquee. Brennan stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, puffed and coughed. “She’s a breaker,” Chandler went on, “a wrecker, some women just can’t avoid it … it’s their nature.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brennan muttered impatiently, survivor of two marriages, one to an English actress, the other to a Charlottesville belle. “Did you see Robin and Marian?”
“Audrey Hepburn,” Chandler said wearily. “I know, I know …”
“Well, I could take a lot of bullshit from that kind of woman—tough, independent, intelligent, beautiful—”
“Who says she’s intelligent?”
“It’s all over her, for God’s sake. She handles herself well—and she makes a good living! As my sainted Irish mother would have said … did say, in regard to my immortal first wife, Brenda the Star.” He punched Chandler in the arm. “Don’t let her get to you. Cheer up!”
Chandler shrugged impatiently.
“Look,” said Brennan, “let’s go have a drink and a dinner at Chez Dreyfus. Do you good—I’ll tell you a new joke!”
“No, I’m worn out, I’m just going to pig out at home, look at a stroke book and go to bed.” Chandler sighed, peering into the steady rain that was heavier now, as it grew darker. “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken to writing for stroke books—”
“Just so you don’t pose—”
“No, I’ve got that Playboy piece … ‘The Real American Revolution,’ that’s the latest title. Dubious scholarship among the tits and beavers.”
“I hate celebrity academics,” Brennan allowed. They turned the corner by the church and headed toward the restaurant, jockeying for position beneath the single umbrella.
“You know,” Chandler mused slowly, “I wish I had been there when he came to my office, I keep turning it over in my mind, wondering … he did say something to me, last week I think, but I can’t quite get hold of it—it was no big deal, no clue, but he just came up after the lecture, looking at me through the hippie glasses, said he had something he wanted to show me. He was shy about it, he said something … wait, I’ve got it, he said I wouldn’t believe it but I had to authenticate it!” He stopped and pinched his lower lip together: “That’s it, something he wanted me to authenticate! Hugh, that’s pretty damn strange … what the hell would a kid like that have that needed an authentication?”
“Document, maybe? Some kind of historical thingy, you mean?”
“Something old or something with a questionable pedigree … maybe a possible forgery? God, it’s weird, the way it just came back to me.”
“So Polly Bishop is no fool, my lad. She said you knew something and she was right—”
“But it couldn’t have anything to do with the murder—”
“Well, you never know, do you?”
In front of Chez Dreyfus, Brennan stopped him again.
“Let me lighten your day,” he said.
“A joke,” Chandler said grimly. “You’re going to tell me a joke …”
“An English professor is out on the town with three graduate students. Ahead of them they see a gathering of ladies of the night-hookers, to you. The professor sets a problem. If a gathering of geese is a gaggle, lions a pride, sheep a flock, then what is a congregation of hookers? Well, being bright lads and steeped in literary allusions, the answers were snappy. Number One shakes his head, strokes his chin, suggests … ‘a volume of trollops’! Which is pretty damn good. But Number Two tops him with ‘a jam of
Similar Books
