The Girl With the Long Green Heart

For BETSY and PO

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

A New Afterword by the Author

A Biography of Lawrence Block

One

When the phone rang I was shaving. I put my razor down and walked across the room to pick up the phone on the bedside table.

A woman’s voice said, “It’s eight-thirty, Mr. Hayden.”

I thanked her and went back to finish shaving. I put on a plain white shirt and the good blue suit I had bought in Toronto. I picked out a dark blue tie with an unobtrusive below-the-knot design and tied it three times before I got the knot as small as I wanted it. I gave my shoes a brief rubdown with one of the hotel’s hand towels, got the day’s first cigarette going, and went over to my window to have a look at the city.

It was my first real look at Olean. I had gotten into town the night before on a puddle-jump flight from Toronto to Buffalo to Olean. My cab ride in from the airport had been less than a scenic tour. At that hour the city looked like any small town with everything closed. There were two movie houses, the Olean and the Palace, and one had already turned off its marquee. A few bars were open. I had gone straight to the Olean House and straight to bed.

Now, in daylight, the town still had little to set it apart. My room was on the third of four floors, and my window looked out across North Union Street. The Olean Trust Company was directly across the street, flanked by a chain five-and-dime and a small drugstore. The street ran to eight lanes, with cars parked at angles to the curb on both sides of the street. Most of the parking spaces were taken.

On the extreme right, I could just see the Exchange National Bank building. It was eight stories tall, twice as high as any of the buildings near it. Wallace J. Gunderman had an office in it, on the sixth floor.

I went downstairs. There were no messages for me. The gray-haired woman at the desk asked me if I would be staying another night. I said that I would. I picked up the local paper at the newsstand in the lobby and carried it into the hotel coffee shop. Businessmen and secretaries sat around drinking morning coffee. I took a table in front, near a group of lawyers who were discussing a hearing on a zoning ordinance. I ate scrambled eggs and bacon and drank black coffee and read everything of interest in the Olean Times-Herald. Gunderman’s name kept cropping up. He was on a committee of the City Club, he was heading up the Men’s Division of the United Fund campaign—that sort of thing.

I had a second cup of coffee and signed the check. Outside, the air was warm and clear. I walked the length of the block, turned and came back to the hotel.

It was nine-thirty when I got back to my room. I looked up Gunderman’s number in the phone book and gave it to the hotel operator.

A girl said, “Mr. Gunderman’s office, good morning.”

“Mr. Gunderman, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“John Hayden. I represent the Barnstable Corporation.”

There was a very brief pause, a short intake of breath. “One moment, please,” she said. “I’ll see if Mr. Gunderman is in.”

I lit a cigarette while she saw if Mr. Gunderman was in. When he came on the line he sounded younger than I had pictured him. His voice was deep and resonant.

“Mr. Hayden? Wallace Gunderman. I don’t believe I know you, do I?”

“No,” I said. “I’m representing the Barnstable Corporation, Mr. Gunderman, and I wondered if I could drop by and see you sometime this afternoon.”

“You’re here in Olean?”

“That’s right.”

“Could you tell me what you want to see me about?”

“Of course. It’s our understanding, sir, that you own a fairly sizable tract of land in northern Alberta. Our corporation is a Toronto-based outfit interested in—”

“Oh, so that’s it.”

“Mr. Gunderman—”

“Now you wait a minute, sir.” He was a few decibels short of a full-fledged roar. “You must think I’m an awfully stupid man, Mr. Hayden. You must think that just because a man’s been played for a sucker once he can be raked over the same coals forever. I took a neat beating on that Canadian land. I made the mistake of listening to one of you smooth-talking Canuck salesmen and I fell for his line like a ton of bricks. I shelled out one hell of a lot of money for some of the most useless land in the world.”

I let him go on. He was doing nicely.

“That was five years ago, Hayden. It took me a while to quit being ashamed of myself. I’m not ashamed any more. I was a damn fool. I’ve been a damn fool before, and I’ll probably be one again before I die, but I’ve never been enough of a damn fool to make the same mistake twice. You people took me once. You taught me a lesson, and goddamn it, I learned that lesson. I’m not in the market for another patch of moose pasture, thank you.”

“Mr. Gunderman—”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t you get the message? I’m not interested.”

“Just let me say one thing, Mr. Gunderman.”

“You’re just wasting your time. And my time as well.”

“There’s just one point of misunderstanding, Mr. Gunderman, and as soon as we clear the air on that I think you’ll see my point.”

“I already see your point.”

I took a breath. I said, “Mr. Gunderman, you seem to think that I’m interested in selling you land at inflated prices. That’s not my intention. I’m here in Olean to make a firm offer on behalf of the Barnstable Corporation to buy your land from you.”

There was a fairly long pause. I put my cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Did I hear you right, Mr. Hayden?”

“I said I’m here to make you an offer for your land in Alberta,” I said. “We wrote to you not long ago but never received an answer.”

“I never got that letter.”

“I’m sure it was sent. In any case—”

“Just a minute. Maybe my girl can dig up that letter. That’s the Barnstable Corporation?”

“Yes.”

I held on while he sent his secretary on a search of the files. I had a fresh cigarette working by the time he was back on the line. His voice was pitched a lot lower now. He sounded almost apologetic.

“I have that letter after all,” he said. “It’s from someone named Rance.”

“Douglas Rance. That’s our company president.”

“And you are—”

“Just a hired hand, Mr. Gunderman.”

“I see.” He thought that over. “According to this letter, you people want to purchase my Canadian holdings for a combination preserve and hunting lodge. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I can’t understand how I overlooked this letter, Mr. Hayden. I must have thought it was a solicitation of one sort or another and just tossed it aside, and then it wound up in the files. I’m sorry for the attitude I took before.”

“Oh, I can understand that.”

“You could if you’d ever been taken by those swindlers. No reflection on your country, Mr. Hayden, but there are a lot of smooth operators based on your side of the border. You say you want my land for a hunting lodge?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, I’d like to give this some thought before I see you. You said you’re here in town. Where can I reach you?”

“I’m at the Olean House. Room 309.”

“You’ll be there for the next hour or so?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll call you within the hour.” He called at ten. I picked up the phone on the third ring. This time around he was slicker than oil. Was I free for lunch? I said I was. Could I drop over to his office around noon? I could. He was at the Exchange Bank building, and did I know where that was? I did. Well, good. He would see me then.

I got to his office a few minutes after twelve. His name was listed on the building directory downstairs, just his name and the number of his office. I rode an outmoded elevator to the sixth floor and found my way around the corridors to a door with his name on it. It opened into an anteroom. There were bookshelves and a magazine rack to the left. On the right side was a steel desk with a girl behind it.

Quite a girl. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and there was a lot of it. Her eyes were large, and just a shade lighter than her hair. She looked up from her typewriter and gave me a smile filled with sugar and spice and everything nice. Could she help me?

“I’m John Hayden,” I said. “I’ve an appointment with Mr. Gunderman.”

The eyes brightened and the smile spread. She looked as though she wanted to say something. Her tongue flicked over her lips and she got to her feet.

“Just one moment,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. Gunderman that you’re here.”

She walked through a door marked
Wallace Gunderman Private
. I watched her go. She was worth watching. She was a tall girl, almost my height, and she had a shape to carry the height. Slender enough to be called willowy, but a little too full in bust and hips for that tag. She wore a skirt and sweater. Both were probably too tight. I wasn’t about to complain.

The door closed after her. When it opened a second time she led Wallace J. Gunderman out of it. She stepped aside and he came across the room to shake my hand.

“Mr. Hayden? I’m Wally Gunderman. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” he said. He was a tall, thick-set man with iron-gray hair and bushy eyebrows and a sunlamp tan. He could have posed for Calvert ads. “Have you met my secretary, Mr. Hayden? Mr. Hayden, this is Evelyn Stone. Evvie’s the girl who managed to bury your Mr. Rance’s letter in the files.”

“I was
sure
you’d seen that letter, Mr. Gunderman—”

“And maybe I did, dear. At least you didn’t throw it away.” He laughed. “But we can forget that now. I’m just glad you people didn’t let the matter drop after one letter. Do you like Italian food, Mr. Hayden? Because there’s a pretty good Italian place around the block.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Good,” he said.

His car was parked in front of the building in a spot reserved for him. It was a Lincoln Continental, a convertible, dove-gray with lighter gray leather upholstery. He had the top down.

“Beautiful weather these past few weeks,” he said. “We usually get a lot of rain in September, but so far it’s held off. How’s the weather in Toronto?”

“Cooler than this, but nice.”

“And I suppose the winters are equally bad here and there. You have it colder, but we get a little more in the way of snow. You don’t have a Canadian accent. Are you originally from Canada?”

“Not even close. I was born in New Mexico, near the Colorado border.”

“Been in Canada long?”

“Not very long.”

We made exciting talk like that while he drove the few blocks to the restaurant. It was called Piccioli’s. There was a small bar, and the tables were covered with red checkered cloths.