Free There was an Old Woman by Howard Engel Page B

unusual situation developing on Brogan Street. For the first time within living memory a big, established business, Foley Bros., closes down. At the other end of the street, a pub that has been doing a fair business over the years prepares to close down in the New Year. In between, the Oldridge property has passed into the hands of a hang-’em, flog-’em outfit that has resisted every innovation since the invention of the wheel. I didn’t know borscht about real-estate values in Grantham, but I had a good nose and it told me to find out more about this nearly forgotten strip of land behind St. Andrew Street. Something was going on. I knew that much.
    â€œâ€¦ so I spent a couple of hours fixing it.”
    â€œWhat? Fixing what, Kogan?”
    â€œThe back fence. At Lizzy’s place. She wouldn’t have me working underfoot in the house, so I propped up the fence for her. Least I could do.”
    â€œKogan, I sure would appreciate your spending some time with the plumbing in the little room down the hall. If you listen closely, you can hear it singing to us. Please, Kogan! It’s driving away my business. I’m on my knees, Kogan!” Kogan retreated, embarrassed at my unmanly show of emotion. Whether he got anywhere near the toilet, I don’t know. But I hoped.

TEN
    I made a few phonecalls. In each case, at the last minute I chickened out of saying what was on my mind. There was something wrong. Mind you, I’m not badmouthing my contacts: they’ve done the firm some service. I won’t say a word against them. But, in each case I decided that I would be starting a rumour trail that would lead back to me. So, I dropped around to Scarp Enterprises just before lunch and caught Martha Tracy coming out the big glass door.
    â€œBenny! As I live and breathe! I thought you were away for the winter already. I was expecting a card from Miami Beach. Something to brighten up these gloomy days.”
    â€œAre you busy for lunch?”
    â€œNow I am. Where shall we go? I’ve only got about forty-five minutes. Benny,” she said smiling, “you’re looking well, you little devil! Have you sold your soul for a good complexion? Is that your secret?”
    We walked up to the end of James Street and then west on St. Andrew. We found a place for two in the centre area of the Di, where a stained-maple partition separated us from a couple of teenagers and their Cokes. Iordered my usual, accepting Martha’s banter of abuse after she gave her own order to the waitress. While we waited for our sandwiches, I told her about the last six months of my life and heard about her difficulties with a tree that is dying at the corner of her lawn on Monck Street.
    â€œI had Dr. Bett, next door, put cement into the hole, but it didn’t do any good.”
    â€œYou got a specialist?”
    â€œDr. Bett is a doctor of music at Cranmer College,” she explained. “He’s only an amateur gardener, but I’m impressed by anyone who has a load of manure delivered every autumn. It has a serious look about it. And I’ve seen him weeding his lawn for hours at a time. He doesn’t know the meaning of ‘quittin’ time.’ The only lawn to beat Dr. Bett’s is Mr. Hill’s, the vicar at the English church on Lisgar Street.”
    â€œMartha …”
    â€œHere it comes!” She leaned forward and looked pleased.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBenny, I knew you didn’t just happen to run into me. You’ve got another problem. I know it. Don’t lie to me.”
    â€œIt’s not a problem. And I was thinking about you anyway.”
    â€œOh, sure. You and a million others. Okay, Cooperman, let’s have it.”
    â€œMartha,” I began, swallowing the last of the first half of my chopped-egg sandwich, “I have to find out whethersomebody is putting together a series of properties behind St. Andrew Street.”
    â€œHmmmm. You