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nostalgic for
your youth. In any case, I load down the pockets with quarters till the Italian
pants are almost falling off and give her another whirl. This time I get a dial
tone and punch in the number Shore’s given me for his insurance company. The woman
tells me I need two more quarters. Honey, quarters I got. I go ahead and put in
about a dozen, in case we want to get into an extended discussion of the
insurance business.
    The
receptionist at Brattle Brothers Insurance answers the phone and introduces
herself as Jean. I ask to speak to the person in charge of Harry Shore’s account.
    “Whom may I
say is calling,” Jean says.
    “ Who ,
sweetheart. You’re working too hard. And this is Willie Lee, private
investigator.” Which gets me some extended elevator music. The good news is I
could hold through midnight and still have quarters to spare, but in three
minutes or so she’s back, telling me that the man I want is in a meeting. I ask
her when she thinks he’ll be out of that meeting, she tells me she just doesn’t
know. Not particularly helpful, Jean, so I decide to help myself.
    “Seeing as how
as I’m not overly occupied at the moment,” I say, “why don’t just I come on up
and settle in to wait for him. First on the list, so to speak.” Jean doesn’t
like this at all. This is simply not protocol. Her voice goes high, but before
I can make out what she’s saying, I’ve hung up the phone.
    I decide to
walk uptown, which has always been my preferred mode of transport in the big
city. Subways make a job out of moving from one place to another, and city
buses with their old ladies can have devastating and long-term effects on a
man’s libido. So you walk and you take it all in, contributing your little
hopes and dreams to the big show. And apparently I’m part of the show. Brattle
Brothers is up near Rockefeller Center, and by the time I reach midtown, I’m
about as certain as I’ll ever be that somebody’s on my tail. He’s wearing a
black leather jacket and a fedora down over his face. Not particularly built,
but his height is intimidating. I mean you hate to think what he could do to
you from up there. When I turn up Thirty Second Street, he turns too. I stare
up at the Empire State, he stares up like he’s just noticing skyscrapers for
the first time. I move on, stopping at a Don’t Walk sign. He stops halfway down
the block until the light turns red, then follows me across the intersection. I
have no idea where he came from, though as tall as this guy is, and if Kafka
and Twiggy are any indication, I’m leaning towards Albania. It doesn’t make
sense, but then a hell of a lot doesn’t make sense, and I do mean in general. I
pick up the pace and manage to lose sight of him among the crowds of tourists
on Fifth Avenue. Brattle Brothers is just around the corner from Saks, and in
the lobby of the building I beat the elevator doors before they close.
    You ask
yourself what makes a man go into the insurance business. All those little
newborn babies out there, not a care in the world, and more than a few of them
will grow up and decide they’re made for insurance. Boggles the mind, it does,
but pop into Brattle Brothers and you start to understand some of the thinking
that goes into this. I’m talking wood-paneled waiting rooms and enough flowers
to hold a funeral at a moment’s notice. Guy dies in the elevator, they can hold
the ceremony right there. Carpets about a foot thick. I wobble over to the
front desk thinking I may just go ahead and ask for a job application. Making
me a little sexy, the carpet is, but then I meet Jean, with whom I’ve had the
pleasure of speaking over the telephone. Jean’s cleared sixty, which experience
has taught me can sometimes be edifying, but weighing in at over two-fifty
she’s about one fetish too many. True to form, I manage to be polite in the
face of disappointment. Grace under pressure is what it’s called, but then I
don’t have to tell you