Quicker’n instant, better’n perked. Nice ring to it, don’t you think? These—” he tapped the envelope—“are the manufacturing specs. Guard them with your life, Brady, my friend. With your life.”
I told Frank I surely would guard them with my life, that it was a helluva idea, and then I listened to him rave about the uses that America would make of coffee bags. Campers, sportsmen, housewives, harried executives late for the train—the market, according to Frank, was unlimited—as was his enthusiasm for the project.
It was the middle of the evening before I got away. I felt bloated and sleepy. Frank’s warnings of pirates rang in my ears. Route 3 cut straight and narrow through the sandy terrain of the Massachusetts south shore, and I fought to keep my eyelids propped open in the face of the headlights of big trucks in the opposite lanes.
It was nearly midnight when I pushed open the door of my waterfront apartment. The phone was ringing.
“It’s Florence,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’ve been working.”
“Humph,” she said, implying with that syllable that I had my nerve giving my attention to other clients. “I found something. You remember the books George had? All those things on radicals and hippies?”
I unbuttoned my shirt and was pushing my shoes off with my toes. “ Atlantic Monthly, October ’71,” I said.
“Brady Coyne! How in the world…”
“Like I said. I’ve been working. So you found the copy of the article.”
“Well, yes. You seemed interested in George’s research, so I thought it might—you know—mean something. How did you know about it?”
“Percy told me.”
“Percy?”
“It’s not important, Florence.”
“So what should I do with it? The article?”
“I’ll come by for it. Okay?”
“It’s all marked up. Written on. Underlined, and some little abbreviations in the margins.”
“Okay. I’ll be out for it.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“I don’t know, Florence.”
“I’m sorry. It’s late.” I heard her sigh. “I just don’t believe he killed himself.”
“No, Percy didn’t, either.”
“Who is this Percy?”
“Just a friend of George’s. I met him today. Nice guy. Thought a lot of George.” I yawned loudly. “’Scuse me. Gotta go. Good night, Florence.”
“Well, all right. Good night.”
I showered quickly, the hot needles of water driving the tension from my muscles. Then I crawled into my solitary bed.
CHAPTER 7
I PARKED AGAIN UNDER the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. I thought of that as my parking spot. When I stepped out of my car I glanced around. The bald-headed kid with his flock of adolescent sheep was nowhere to be seen. I had rather looked forward to another debate with him.
The girl at the desk outside Bartley Elliott’s office blinked myopically at me from behind thick, round glasses and said that Mr. Elliott was out of his office for the afternoon, could she help me? I told her I was trying to find one of the students, a Harvey Willard.
“Oh,” she said. “Harvey.” Her cheeks flushed.
“Yes. Do you know where he might be?”
“The track. He’s probably at practice. You’re not the guy from Duke.”
“No. I’m not from Duke.”
“U.C.L.A.? Harvey told me the U.C.L.A. guy’s supposed to be coming this week. You from there?”
“No,” I said. “I’m from Yale.”
“Oh, wow! That’s awesome. The Ivy League.”
The girl wore a scent that reminded me of Gloria’s bridge parties. I wondered what she looked like without her glasses.
I wandered out behind the cluster of brick buildings to the complex of playing fields where I had talked with Coach Warren Baker a couple of weeks earlier. The track team worked out at the opposite end from the baseball diamond, several Mike Schmidt home runs away.
Track practice seemed to be a pretty haphazard affair. I saw no one who looked like a coach. Three boys were jogging slowly
I told Frank I surely would guard them with my life, that it was a helluva idea, and then I listened to him rave about the uses that America would make of coffee bags. Campers, sportsmen, housewives, harried executives late for the train—the market, according to Frank, was unlimited—as was his enthusiasm for the project.
It was the middle of the evening before I got away. I felt bloated and sleepy. Frank’s warnings of pirates rang in my ears. Route 3 cut straight and narrow through the sandy terrain of the Massachusetts south shore, and I fought to keep my eyelids propped open in the face of the headlights of big trucks in the opposite lanes.
It was nearly midnight when I pushed open the door of my waterfront apartment. The phone was ringing.
“It’s Florence,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’ve been working.”
“Humph,” she said, implying with that syllable that I had my nerve giving my attention to other clients. “I found something. You remember the books George had? All those things on radicals and hippies?”
I unbuttoned my shirt and was pushing my shoes off with my toes. “ Atlantic Monthly, October ’71,” I said.
“Brady Coyne! How in the world…”
“Like I said. I’ve been working. So you found the copy of the article.”
“Well, yes. You seemed interested in George’s research, so I thought it might—you know—mean something. How did you know about it?”
“Percy told me.”
“Percy?”
“It’s not important, Florence.”
“So what should I do with it? The article?”
“I’ll come by for it. Okay?”
“It’s all marked up. Written on. Underlined, and some little abbreviations in the margins.”
“Okay. I’ll be out for it.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“I don’t know, Florence.”
“I’m sorry. It’s late.” I heard her sigh. “I just don’t believe he killed himself.”
“No, Percy didn’t, either.”
“Who is this Percy?”
“Just a friend of George’s. I met him today. Nice guy. Thought a lot of George.” I yawned loudly. “’Scuse me. Gotta go. Good night, Florence.”
“Well, all right. Good night.”
I showered quickly, the hot needles of water driving the tension from my muscles. Then I crawled into my solitary bed.
CHAPTER 7
I PARKED AGAIN UNDER the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. I thought of that as my parking spot. When I stepped out of my car I glanced around. The bald-headed kid with his flock of adolescent sheep was nowhere to be seen. I had rather looked forward to another debate with him.
The girl at the desk outside Bartley Elliott’s office blinked myopically at me from behind thick, round glasses and said that Mr. Elliott was out of his office for the afternoon, could she help me? I told her I was trying to find one of the students, a Harvey Willard.
“Oh,” she said. “Harvey.” Her cheeks flushed.
“Yes. Do you know where he might be?”
“The track. He’s probably at practice. You’re not the guy from Duke.”
“No. I’m not from Duke.”
“U.C.L.A.? Harvey told me the U.C.L.A. guy’s supposed to be coming this week. You from there?”
“No,” I said. “I’m from Yale.”
“Oh, wow! That’s awesome. The Ivy League.”
The girl wore a scent that reminded me of Gloria’s bridge parties. I wondered what she looked like without her glasses.
I wandered out behind the cluster of brick buildings to the complex of playing fields where I had talked with Coach Warren Baker a couple of weeks earlier. The track team worked out at the opposite end from the baseball diamond, several Mike Schmidt home runs away.
Track practice seemed to be a pretty haphazard affair. I saw no one who looked like a coach. Three boys were jogging slowly
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