find what he wanted.”
I nodded. “What did you mean—about him getting in trouble?”
“Oh, just a joke. See, George wanted to copy an article from a magazine, and he didn’t have any money with him. Typical of him, you know? Never brought back books late. Meticulous, that way. But always broke. Forgot his library card half the time. Drive all the way down here from his school there to take out books, and leave his card home. I’d stamp them out on my card for him. That’s how much I trusted him. So anyway, he brought me this article. ‘I’ve got to have a copy of this,’ he said, and I said to him, ‘The Xerox’s over there,’ and he said, ‘Yeah, but I don’t have any money with me.’ So I loaned him seven dimes. That’s all. He promised to pay me back, and, of course, I knew he would, though it really didn’t matter. But I said to him, ‘You don’t pay me back you’re in big trouble, honky,’ like that, rolling my eyes around and lookin’ fierce. That always made George laugh, when I did my tough-dude act for him.”
The big man stared at me, as if he were trying to decide whether to do his tough-dude act for me. Then he said, “I haven’t seen George since then. Probably the same time he took out these books. Hell, he didn’t have to send you. I can spare the seventy cents.”
He bared his big teeth and laughed loudly. I smiled. “What was the article about, do you remember?”
“Yup. Atlantic Monthly. Fall of 1971. October, November, around there. Something about terrorists or radicals. College kids blowing up post offices. White college kids.” He stared at me for a minute.
“Okay,” I said. “That makes sense. He was doing some research on that. That article probably was just what he was looking for.”
“That’s what he said. ‘Just what I’m looking for.’ Those were his exact words,” said Wilt.
“You don’t have another copy of the magazine, do you?”
“Hell, no. You got any idea how many periodicals we get in this place?”
I shook my head.
“Two hundred and seventy-eight. That’s just the magazines. Then there’s the newspapers. From all over the world. The Times and Globe go on microfilm. We used to do a lot more of that. Had to cut back. You know, budgets.”
“Sure,” I said. “You think that was October ’71?”
“October, November, in there. Maybe September, I couldn’t say for sure. But the fall, and ’71. I’m sure on that.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I nodded, and turned to go.
“You say hi to George for me, now, hear?”
I stopped and turned to face the tall man. “He’s dead,” I said. “Really.”
He chuckled. “Sure. Right. I wouldn’t show my face around here again, either, if I owed the librarian seven dimes. Hey, you tell George it’s okay. You tell him ol’ Percy isn’t mad, and the dimes were a gift, okay? You tell him that.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”
“You tell George Percy says he doesn’t need to be dead.”
I walked out into the sunshine. I agreed. George Gresham didn’t need to be dead.
Frank Paradise fed me the anticipated lobsters, steamed clams, and Coors at a long table on the patio by his pool in Brewster. Our conversation was frequently punctuated by the BZZT! of insects flying into their electrified death at the pair of big, blue lights hung at the corners of the house.
After we had eaten, Frank led me into his book lined den. He picked up a large manila envelope and clutched it with both hands against his great stomach.
“This is it,” he said.
“This is what?”
“What’s gonna revolutionize America’s morning rituals.”
“More computer stuff?”
“Nope. Better.” Frank put his mouth close to my ear. “Coffee bags,” he whispered, then stepped back to grin at me.
“Oh. Coffee bags.” I nodded vigorously.
“Sure. Like tea bags. Only with coffee in ’em. Better’n instant. Quicker’n perked. Listen, that can be our slogan, once we get production under way.
I nodded. “What did you mean—about him getting in trouble?”
“Oh, just a joke. See, George wanted to copy an article from a magazine, and he didn’t have any money with him. Typical of him, you know? Never brought back books late. Meticulous, that way. But always broke. Forgot his library card half the time. Drive all the way down here from his school there to take out books, and leave his card home. I’d stamp them out on my card for him. That’s how much I trusted him. So anyway, he brought me this article. ‘I’ve got to have a copy of this,’ he said, and I said to him, ‘The Xerox’s over there,’ and he said, ‘Yeah, but I don’t have any money with me.’ So I loaned him seven dimes. That’s all. He promised to pay me back, and, of course, I knew he would, though it really didn’t matter. But I said to him, ‘You don’t pay me back you’re in big trouble, honky,’ like that, rolling my eyes around and lookin’ fierce. That always made George laugh, when I did my tough-dude act for him.”
The big man stared at me, as if he were trying to decide whether to do his tough-dude act for me. Then he said, “I haven’t seen George since then. Probably the same time he took out these books. Hell, he didn’t have to send you. I can spare the seventy cents.”
He bared his big teeth and laughed loudly. I smiled. “What was the article about, do you remember?”
“Yup. Atlantic Monthly. Fall of 1971. October, November, around there. Something about terrorists or radicals. College kids blowing up post offices. White college kids.” He stared at me for a minute.
“Okay,” I said. “That makes sense. He was doing some research on that. That article probably was just what he was looking for.”
“That’s what he said. ‘Just what I’m looking for.’ Those were his exact words,” said Wilt.
“You don’t have another copy of the magazine, do you?”
“Hell, no. You got any idea how many periodicals we get in this place?”
I shook my head.
“Two hundred and seventy-eight. That’s just the magazines. Then there’s the newspapers. From all over the world. The Times and Globe go on microfilm. We used to do a lot more of that. Had to cut back. You know, budgets.”
“Sure,” I said. “You think that was October ’71?”
“October, November, in there. Maybe September, I couldn’t say for sure. But the fall, and ’71. I’m sure on that.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I nodded, and turned to go.
“You say hi to George for me, now, hear?”
I stopped and turned to face the tall man. “He’s dead,” I said. “Really.”
He chuckled. “Sure. Right. I wouldn’t show my face around here again, either, if I owed the librarian seven dimes. Hey, you tell George it’s okay. You tell him ol’ Percy isn’t mad, and the dimes were a gift, okay? You tell him that.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”
“You tell George Percy says he doesn’t need to be dead.”
I walked out into the sunshine. I agreed. George Gresham didn’t need to be dead.
Frank Paradise fed me the anticipated lobsters, steamed clams, and Coors at a long table on the patio by his pool in Brewster. Our conversation was frequently punctuated by the BZZT! of insects flying into their electrified death at the pair of big, blue lights hung at the corners of the house.
After we had eaten, Frank led me into his book lined den. He picked up a large manila envelope and clutched it with both hands against his great stomach.
“This is it,” he said.
“This is what?”
“What’s gonna revolutionize America’s morning rituals.”
“More computer stuff?”
“Nope. Better.” Frank put his mouth close to my ear. “Coffee bags,” he whispered, then stepped back to grin at me.
“Oh. Coffee bags.” I nodded vigorously.
“Sure. Like tea bags. Only with coffee in ’em. Better’n instant. Quicker’n perked. Listen, that can be our slogan, once we get production under way.