quit till he’s got his limit.” Ed tried out a country-boy chuckle. “Heh-heh. Sometimes he don’t quit even then.”
I managed to disengage myself from Ed only after he told me about how all the male teachers and students played hookey from the regional high school during the first week of the deer season, and how he opened the store at four a.m. that week to sell buckshot and deer urine scent and coffee and sandwiches. I suspected Ed valued the hunters’ company as much as their business.
I tried the Turner’s Falls number for Roscoe Pollard and Vinnie Colletti. No answer.
I spent the rest of the morning telephone sparring with other lawyers on behalf of clients, and it wasn’t until noontime when I found a minute to call Al Coleman in New York. I expected to hear Bonnie’s voice on their office answering machine, and I was prepared to leave a strongly worded message. “Where’s that damn manuscript?” Something to that effect.
Instead Bonnie answered in person. “The Coleman Literary Agency,” she said.
“Oh, hi,” I said. “It’s Brady Coyne. I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“I’m back. Just for the week, I hope. Trying to get everything cleaned out. I’ve gotten all your messages. I would’ve eventually returned your call.”
“Cleaned out?”
There was a long pause before she said, “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
I heard her expel a long breath. “About Al.”
“What’s going on?”
“Al died.”
“Oh, shit. What happened?”
She sighed again. I suspected she had been asked that question many times and didn’t enjoy answering it. “It was about a month ago. He… they said he got mugged.”
“Mugged?”
“They found his body in the subway station. He was stabbed. He bled to death. He lay there a long time before somebody figured out that he wasn’t a derelict in an Irish linen sports jacket passed out in a pool of blood.”
“God!” I managed to mumble.
“New York,” said Bonnie Coleman. “I hate this goddam city.”
“Look,” I said. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay, Mr. Coyne. His clients have to know. I’m turning everything over to Keating and Keating. They’re very good. A big Park Avenue agency. It’s been a little complicated. See, I’ll continue to get the commissions on Al’s old accounts, but—you don’t need to hear this.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m not really a client. He had a manuscript.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Al had decided not to handle it. He was going to return it—”
“You haven’t got it yet?” she said.
“Well, there’s no hurry, really. But when you can…”
“I don’t think I have it.”
“Has it been sent? Did it get lost in the mail?”
“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t remember sending it. I—it’s been a tough month, Mr. Coyne.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound as if she believed me. She must have heard a lot of insincere “I’m sorry”s lately. I mean it, I said. I’m very sorry.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And I’m sorry to be pestering you.”
“I assume Al mailed your manuscript to you.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the postal service screwed up. I’ll check around. There’s still lots of junk here. I’m still finding stuff in the back of the file cabinets. Christ, he kept most of his deals and agreements in his head. I mean, he’d write himself notes, but damned if anybody except him could understand them. You know what I mean? He’d send a proposal to six publishers, and what he’d write down would be the first names of the editors. Then he’d shove the notes under his blotter. I mean, he knew what he was doing, but it’s been a bear, trying to straighten it all out without him.”
“I was just hoping to get that manuscript back.”
“What was the title of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, but…”
“And I don’t know the author’s name,
I managed to disengage myself from Ed only after he told me about how all the male teachers and students played hookey from the regional high school during the first week of the deer season, and how he opened the store at four a.m. that week to sell buckshot and deer urine scent and coffee and sandwiches. I suspected Ed valued the hunters’ company as much as their business.
I tried the Turner’s Falls number for Roscoe Pollard and Vinnie Colletti. No answer.
I spent the rest of the morning telephone sparring with other lawyers on behalf of clients, and it wasn’t until noontime when I found a minute to call Al Coleman in New York. I expected to hear Bonnie’s voice on their office answering machine, and I was prepared to leave a strongly worded message. “Where’s that damn manuscript?” Something to that effect.
Instead Bonnie answered in person. “The Coleman Literary Agency,” she said.
“Oh, hi,” I said. “It’s Brady Coyne. I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“I’m back. Just for the week, I hope. Trying to get everything cleaned out. I’ve gotten all your messages. I would’ve eventually returned your call.”
“Cleaned out?”
There was a long pause before she said, “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
I heard her expel a long breath. “About Al.”
“What’s going on?”
“Al died.”
“Oh, shit. What happened?”
She sighed again. I suspected she had been asked that question many times and didn’t enjoy answering it. “It was about a month ago. He… they said he got mugged.”
“Mugged?”
“They found his body in the subway station. He was stabbed. He bled to death. He lay there a long time before somebody figured out that he wasn’t a derelict in an Irish linen sports jacket passed out in a pool of blood.”
“God!” I managed to mumble.
“New York,” said Bonnie Coleman. “I hate this goddam city.”
“Look,” I said. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay, Mr. Coyne. His clients have to know. I’m turning everything over to Keating and Keating. They’re very good. A big Park Avenue agency. It’s been a little complicated. See, I’ll continue to get the commissions on Al’s old accounts, but—you don’t need to hear this.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m not really a client. He had a manuscript.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Al had decided not to handle it. He was going to return it—”
“You haven’t got it yet?” she said.
“Well, there’s no hurry, really. But when you can…”
“I don’t think I have it.”
“Has it been sent? Did it get lost in the mail?”
“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t remember sending it. I—it’s been a tough month, Mr. Coyne.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound as if she believed me. She must have heard a lot of insincere “I’m sorry”s lately. I mean it, I said. I’m very sorry.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And I’m sorry to be pestering you.”
“I assume Al mailed your manuscript to you.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the postal service screwed up. I’ll check around. There’s still lots of junk here. I’m still finding stuff in the back of the file cabinets. Christ, he kept most of his deals and agreements in his head. I mean, he’d write himself notes, but damned if anybody except him could understand them. You know what I mean? He’d send a proposal to six publishers, and what he’d write down would be the first names of the editors. Then he’d shove the notes under his blotter. I mean, he knew what he was doing, but it’s been a bear, trying to straighten it all out without him.”
“I was just hoping to get that manuscript back.”
“What was the title of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, but…”
“And I don’t know the author’s name,
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