I was Ethan Duffy’s family friend, I had important news for him, if you see him please have him call me, or if you know where he is, call me yourself. I left my name and phone number.
Seven of the phones had been disconnected.
Three students answered, two boys and a girl. All of them knew Ethan, but none of them admitted to being his friend. They all volunteered that he seemed to be a good guy but kind of a loner, and they had no idea where he might be.
I asked them to have Ethan call me if they happened to run into him. They said they would, but they didn’t expect to run into him.
After I hung up from the last call, I pushed myself back from my desk, lit a cigarette, and stared out the window.
Ethan. Where the hell are you?
I hauled out my big Boston-Cambridge Yellow Pages and looked up Vintage Vinyl. I picked up the phone, then put it down and glanced at my watch. It was a little after four.
“Hey, Henry,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I turned off the electric coffeemaker, rinsed out the pot, snapped on Henry’s leash, picked up the sweatshirt he’d been lying on, and went across the street to the parking garage. I spread my sweatshirt on the backseat and told Henry that was his place. He hopped in, sat on the sweatshirt, and pressed his nose against the window.
I hooked onto Mass. Ave. and crossed the Charles Riveron the Harvard Bridge. It was another glorious June day, and the river was dotted with sailboats and one-man sculls and kayaks and canoes. I spotted a couple of bass boats with men chucking spinning lures toward the banks. Seeing them reminded me that I hadn’t been fishing in a couple of weeks. I’d give Charlie McDevitt a call, see if he could free himself up for a day over the weekend.
I needed to go fishing. Fishing, I’d discovered over the years, was an excellent antidote to the bleakness I always felt when somebody I knew died.
Vintage Vinyl, the record shop where Ethan worked, was on Mass. Ave., and I spotted it on the left outside of Central Square just past City Hall. Finding a place to leave my car was a greater challenge.
I finally slid into an empty space on a side street. I hooked Henry to his leash, locked the car, and the two of us strolled over to the record store.
The storefront was just wide enough for a door and a display window. A hand-painted sign in the window read: “Old LP’s and 45’s Bought and Sold.” A dozen or so album covers sandwiched in protective plastic covers were on display—Frank Sinatra, looking boyish and skinny the way he did in
From Here to Eternity
, Nat King Cole holding a cigarette,
Cheap Thrills
, the Janis Joplin breakout with Big Brother and the Holding Company, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Johnny Mathis, the Beatles’ White Album. I wondered if record album collectors valued the sleeves the way bibliophiles prized mint-condition book jackets. I was willing to bet that they didn’t actually play the records.
Henry and I went inside. Joan Baez was singing “Baby Blue” over the speakers. Both walls were lined with shelvespacked with record albums, and a long narrow table stood in the middle. It held boxes of 45’s.
A pale, lanky man with a receding hairline and a ponytail and rimless glasses was sitting at an ancient rolltop desk in the corner beside the door. He was talking on the telephone, and when he spotted me, he held up a finger.
I riffled through the 45’s. “Oh Gee” by the Crows. Vintage 1953. “Come Go with Me,” the Del Vikings. A couple of years later, I seemed to recall. Before I was even born.
The guy at the desk hung up and came over. Up close I saw that he was younger than I’d thought. Thirty, maybe.
When he noticed Henry, he scooched down and rubbed the dog’s head. “It’s old Henry. How you doin’, man?”
Henry lay down and rolled onto his back.
The guy looked up at me and grinned. “He loves to have his belly scratched. You must be a friend of Ethan’s, huh?”
I nodded and
Seven of the phones had been disconnected.
Three students answered, two boys and a girl. All of them knew Ethan, but none of them admitted to being his friend. They all volunteered that he seemed to be a good guy but kind of a loner, and they had no idea where he might be.
I asked them to have Ethan call me if they happened to run into him. They said they would, but they didn’t expect to run into him.
After I hung up from the last call, I pushed myself back from my desk, lit a cigarette, and stared out the window.
Ethan. Where the hell are you?
I hauled out my big Boston-Cambridge Yellow Pages and looked up Vintage Vinyl. I picked up the phone, then put it down and glanced at my watch. It was a little after four.
“Hey, Henry,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I turned off the electric coffeemaker, rinsed out the pot, snapped on Henry’s leash, picked up the sweatshirt he’d been lying on, and went across the street to the parking garage. I spread my sweatshirt on the backseat and told Henry that was his place. He hopped in, sat on the sweatshirt, and pressed his nose against the window.
I hooked onto Mass. Ave. and crossed the Charles Riveron the Harvard Bridge. It was another glorious June day, and the river was dotted with sailboats and one-man sculls and kayaks and canoes. I spotted a couple of bass boats with men chucking spinning lures toward the banks. Seeing them reminded me that I hadn’t been fishing in a couple of weeks. I’d give Charlie McDevitt a call, see if he could free himself up for a day over the weekend.
I needed to go fishing. Fishing, I’d discovered over the years, was an excellent antidote to the bleakness I always felt when somebody I knew died.
Vintage Vinyl, the record shop where Ethan worked, was on Mass. Ave., and I spotted it on the left outside of Central Square just past City Hall. Finding a place to leave my car was a greater challenge.
I finally slid into an empty space on a side street. I hooked Henry to his leash, locked the car, and the two of us strolled over to the record store.
The storefront was just wide enough for a door and a display window. A hand-painted sign in the window read: “Old LP’s and 45’s Bought and Sold.” A dozen or so album covers sandwiched in protective plastic covers were on display—Frank Sinatra, looking boyish and skinny the way he did in
From Here to Eternity
, Nat King Cole holding a cigarette,
Cheap Thrills
, the Janis Joplin breakout with Big Brother and the Holding Company, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Johnny Mathis, the Beatles’ White Album. I wondered if record album collectors valued the sleeves the way bibliophiles prized mint-condition book jackets. I was willing to bet that they didn’t actually play the records.
Henry and I went inside. Joan Baez was singing “Baby Blue” over the speakers. Both walls were lined with shelvespacked with record albums, and a long narrow table stood in the middle. It held boxes of 45’s.
A pale, lanky man with a receding hairline and a ponytail and rimless glasses was sitting at an ancient rolltop desk in the corner beside the door. He was talking on the telephone, and when he spotted me, he held up a finger.
I riffled through the 45’s. “Oh Gee” by the Crows. Vintage 1953. “Come Go with Me,” the Del Vikings. A couple of years later, I seemed to recall. Before I was even born.
The guy at the desk hung up and came over. Up close I saw that he was younger than I’d thought. Thirty, maybe.
When he noticed Henry, he scooched down and rubbed the dog’s head. “It’s old Henry. How you doin’, man?”
Henry lay down and rolled onto his back.
The guy looked up at me and grinned. “He loves to have his belly scratched. You must be a friend of Ethan’s, huh?”
I nodded and
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