Read Vulgar Boatman for Free Online Page A

thing here, aren’t we?”
    “Probably not. But we’re in the same ballpark. If you can tell me how to find—” I pulled out Tom’s note and scanned it “—ah, Computer City, I’ll be on my way.”
    “Bob Pritchard has neither seen nor heard from Buddy Baron,” said Cusick.
    I nodded. “Sure. You’ve been there already.”
    “Of course.”
    He gave me the directions and I jogged through the rain to my car.
    Computer City occupied a corner of a recently refurbished brick building in what passed for downtown Windsor Harbor.
    The walls of the large room were lined with multitiered desks, on which were displayed several different models of home computers. Chairs in front of each one invited the potential customer to sit and peck at the keyboard. One of the chairs was occupied by a bearded young man, who glanced up at me.
    “You don’t wanna buy a computer,” he declared.
    “That is one helluva sales pitch,” I said.
    He grinned. “Gets ’em every time.”
    “I’m looking for Bob Pritchard.”
    “How come?”
    “I want to talk about Buddy Baron.”
    “See?”
    “Huh?”
    “I was right. You don’t want to buy a computer. I can tell instantly who’s a customer and who’s getting in out of the rain. Save myself a lot of time that way. I’m Pritchard. Pull up a chair.”
    I did. I glanced at the screen of the computer monitor. It was covered with columns and rows of figures. He hit a few keys, and the columns and rows moved. “Spread sheet,” he said. “You wanna keep your books up to date, just get one of these suckers. Everything on one little disk. No more file cabinets full of documents, no big ledgers, drawers crammed with scraps of paper. Neat and tidy.”
    “I’m getting in out of the rain, remember? I’ve got a computer in my office. My secretary is a whiz at it. I don’t know diddly about it, myself. Don’t really want to.”
    He nodded. “Lot of people, they get a certain age, they don’t like to deal with new technology. It scares them. Makes them feel old, outmoded.” He cocked his eyebrows at me.
    I shrugged. “You’re probably a better salesman than I thought at first.”
    He grinned. “So who’re you?”
    “My name’s Coyne. Brady Coyne. I’m Tom Baron’s attorney.”
    He nodded. “Ah.”
    “I understand Buddy has missed work.”
    “He was out yesterday. Hasn’t showed up today yet, either, as you can see.”
    “And he didn’t call?”
    “Nope.”
    “Has he ever done this before? Not come to work, not called in?”
    “Nope.”
    “Am I boring you?”
    “Nope.” He smiled again. “The police asked all these questions already.”
    “Can you think of any questions they should’ve asked that they didn’t?”
    “Now that,” said Pritchard, “is a good question. The cops did not ask me that question. And the answer is, yes, there are a few questions I’d expect someone to ask.”
    “Like?”
    “Like, had Buddy really kicked cocaine.”
    “Has he?”
    “Yes. I’m sure of it. And I should know.”
    “You’ve been there,” I said.
    “Yes. I’ve been there and back.”
    “Is that why you hired Buddy?”
    Pritchard made a wry face. “No. I didn’t know that when I hired him. If I had known that, I would have thought twice. Bad risk. Drug addicts are always bad risks. No, I hired Buddy because Tom Baron asked me to, and you don’t say no to Tom Baron too easily in this town. Not that he twisted my arm. Still, you like to get along with old Tom. Anyway, when Buddy found out what I’d been through, he started to open up to me. We talked about it a lot. He’s a surprisingly strong kid. Tough-minded, I mean. He messed up, but he cares about himself. He’s been straight for a long time. More than a year clean. A long time for an addict. He’s been through the worst times. There is a time, you know, and it comes about nine months after rehab, when you don’t think you can take it any longer, when you feel like giving up. People go one of three ways