“Can you show me?”
He shook his head. “Filthy down there, man.”
“Who else knows what’s down there?”
“Who knows who knows, man. Now, I got stuff to do. I don’t know what you are, but you ain’t no artist.”
“That your stuff on the wall?”
“Yeah.”
“Then neither are you.”
He swore but decided to let it go at that, and I gave it up. I probably shouldn’t have—there might have been something down there I could use—but I can only root around in the barn lot of bureaucracy for so long.
I walked back outside and found a phone booth and got the number of Shelley Withers, Max Kottle’s first wife and Karl Kottle’s mother, and called it. The voice that answered was male and laconic.
I was immediately informed that Mrs. Withers could not possibly be disturbed, for any reason. I listened to a lot of “absolutely not’s” and “out of the question’s” before I got a chance to mention Karl Kottle’s name. Even at that I had to identify him as Mrs. Withers’ son before the voice reluctantly speculated that if I came by the house about four I might share a few seconds of her majesty’s life, but only a few seconds, of course, because some theater people were coming for cocktails at five thirty and Mrs. Withers always allowed an hour to prepare herself. When I asked if I were speaking to Mr. Withers the voice said, “You are no longer speaking to anyone,” and hung up.
I shoved my way out of the booth and started down the street toward the BART station to wait for a ride downtown, but as I was about to step into Larkin Street I got another idea so I headed back to the library. The woman behind the counter at the place where they give out the library cards was young and eager to please. I told her how important the library was to me—for the wonderful movies and lectures as well as the books—and then I told her I had lost my wallet last week and the first thing I was trying to replace was my library card, even before my driver’s license. I also told her I had moved recently and needed to report a change of address. When she asked me my name I used Karl’s.
The woman excused herself and came back a minute later with a paper in her hand. “You don’t live on Twenty-sixth Street anymore?” she asked brightly.
I smiled. “I do, you see, but I moved up the street. Less than a block. But maybe my wife already called in the change. What number do you have there?”
“Three seven two seven.”
I nodded several times, my palms upturned in mute worship. “She did, all right. Sally’s amazing. That’s the new number, so all I need is a new card.”
The woman gave me a form to take with me and I did.
Buy Death Bed Now!
About the Author
Stephen Greenleaf (b. 1942), a former lawyer and an alumnus of the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop, is a mystery and thriller writer best known for his series of novels starring PI John Marshall Tanner. Recognized for being both literate and highly entertaining, Greenleaf’s novels often deal with contemporary social and political issues.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1979 by Stephen Greenleaf
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ISBN: 978-1-5040-2733-5
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