The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
I agreed noncommittally, not knowing where he was headed.
“Ought to place it somewhere bigger than the Carrier.”
“Like where?”
“Why I told you to come in early today,” he said, reaching for the phone.
“Who are we calling?”
“Leenie,” Art explained while dialing. “Eileen Coughlin. She’s the
deputy editor at the big Boston paper, and she and I—” He broke off midsentence,
listening. “Lee-NIE,” he greeted the respondent, his voice rising
on the second syllable as a small smile quivered, resolved, spread into a
larger one.
“Yes, indeed it is. How’s you? Wait there just one minute—I’m going to
put you on speakerphone.”
A throaty woman’s voice with a thick Boston accent crackled from Art’s
phone. “. . . this fucking box and talk to you like a normal person.”
“Leenie, you remember at the Metzgers’ the other night I was telling you
about the kid reporting for me? Paul Tomm?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s in the office with me, and he’s working on something that I
think might suit you guys more than me.”
“Yeah? This kid comes with the Artie Rolen seal of approval, I’m all ears.
Let’s hear it.”
Art pointed at me and nodded: you’re on. I told her the story as concisely
as I could, playing up the darker parts (mysterious paranoid immigrant professor
who carried and sometimes fired a handgun, no immediately apparent
cause of death, unknown concerned citizen reporting the death from a pay
phone, possible robbery, police record) and sidestepping the most banal conclusion
(strange old man dies alone of natural causes).
“Well,” said Leenie after I finished, “sounds like it could be something.
Then again, sounds like it could be absolutely nothing. But it is interesting.
Artie directing you or advising you?”
“Advising, sweetheart,” Art called into the box. “Kid’s dressing himself
and uses the potty all on his own now, too.”
“Listen, Paul, do me a favor, would you?” she asked, laughing. “Pick up
this phone so I don’t have to listen to you shouting down a tin box. Thanks,
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