Free Oliver's Story by Erich Segal Page A

asked.
    I reflected for a minisecond. Maybe what I needed was a friendly conversation with a human being like Joanna. No, that would be unfair. She’s too . . . together for a guy like me.
    “And nothing else?” I snarled.
    “I left some memos. Interoffice. Okay if I leave?”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    I hurried to my desk. As might have been expected, interoffice memos in a law firm all related to assorted cases that the firm was handling. Not a word from Marcie.
    Two days later, old man Jonas asked me to his office for a meeting. Damn. I told Anita I would buy her lunch if she would stay on guard. The boss had brought me in—again with Mr. Marsh—to talk about the case of Harold Baye, a wiretapper for the FBI who had discovered he himself was being bugged by his own bureau. Insects of this sort were now a veritable plague. Harold had hairy tales to tell about surveillance of some White House staff. Naturally, he didn’t have much dough. But Jonas thought the firm should take his case “to tune the public in.”
    The second that our meeting broke, I sprinted back.
    “Any calls, Anita?”
    “Washington, D.C.,” she said, kind of impressed at having taken such a message. “The director of the OEO.”
    “Oh,” I said, not quite enthusiastic. “Nothing else?”
    “Were you expecting maybe Jacqueline Onassis?”
    “Hey, look—don’t kid around, Anita,” I retorted frostily. And stomped into my office.
    I overheard Anita mutter, honestly confused, “What’s eating him?”
    Naturally, I wasn’t merely passive, waiting for a call. I played tennis every morning. When poor Simpson couldn’t make it, I took “lessons” from old Petie Clark, their antiquated pro.
    “Let me tell you, sonny, Petie’s taught ’em all. They go from me to Wimbledon.”
    “Hey, did you ever teach a Marcie Nash?”
    “You mean that pretty little gal—”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “—who won the doubles with that red-haired fella back in ’48?”
    “Never mind. Forget it, Petie.”
    “Tell the truth, I don’t remember if I taught that one or not.”
    And every afternoon I ran. Against the traffic, so I’d get a better look at faces. Still no luck. Whatever Marcie did, it sometimes took her out of town for many days. But I would persevere.
    Though I had immediately joined the Gotham Tennis Club (the sole criterion for membership is money), they would not cooperate. I mean the office would vouchsafe no information whatsoever on my fellow clubbees.
    “You mean you haven’t got a list?”
    “It’s just for office use. I’m sorry, Mr. Barrett.”
    In a moment of frustration, I considered asking Harold Baye to bug their phone. But then I stopped myself. Still, that’s an index of my desperate state of mind.
    Obviously, I inquired at Binnendale’s. With some fishy story of an aunt and an inheritance, I learned that they did, in fact, have three employees with the surname Nash. I checked them personally.
    First, in Ladies’ Shoes, I met Priscilla Nash. She was a friendly woman who had worked there over forty years. She’d never married. And her only living relative was Uncle Hank in Georgia and her only friend a cat named Agamemnon. To obtain this information cost me eighty-seven bucks. I had to purchase boots, “a birthday present for my sister,” as I chatted amiably with Miss Nash. (I got Anita’s size; the gift just added to her schizophrenia.)
    Then to Mr. B., their with-it men’s department. There to meet Miss Elvy Nash. “Hello,” said Elvy, flashing lots of charm and chic. This Nash was black and very beautiful. “What can I do you for today?” she smiled. Oh, what indeed!
    Miss Elvy Nash persuaded me that guys were really into shirt-and-sweater combinations. Before I knew it I was holding six of them. And she was ringing up—would you believe?—three hundred dollars and some change. “Now the chicks won’t keep their hands off you. You’ll look as fine as wine,” Miss Elvy said. And I departed looking good. But