A Drop of the Hard Stuff

“Abbott and Costello.”

“Yeah, them two. So I say, lemme see now, you’re also Mr. Scudder. And he say, I am the Scudder.”

“ ‘I am the Scudder.’ ”

“Yeah, just like that. So I say, then you and Mr. Scudder be brothers. And he say how all men be brothers, and at this point it’s getting way too weird for me.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

“Say what?”

“Nothing. He leave a number?”

“Say you have it.”

“I have his number.”

“What he say.”

“All men are brothers, and he’s the Scudder, and I have his number.”

He nodded. “I tried to get it right,” he said, “but man like that don’t make it easy.”

“You did fine,” I told him.

XXXV

I RODE UP in the elevator, feeling pleased with myself. I’d managed to figure out who my caller had to be, and that was the first detecting I’d done in longer than I cared to remember.

I looked up his number, dialed it, and when he answered I said, “If you’re ever in the neighborhood, stop in and apologize to my desk clerk. You had the poor guy caught up in an Abbott and Costello routine.”

The silence stretched until I started wondering if my detection had gone awry. Then he said, “Who’s this, man?”

“Scudder.”

“Oh, wow,” he said. “When I called, you know, I thought that’d be you answering your phone. But you’re at some kind of hotel.”

“Well, it’s not the Waldorf.”

“And this cat I was talking to, he’s the desk clerk?”

“That’s right. His name is Jacob.”

“Jacob,” he said. “Jay. Cub. Great name, man. You don’t meet many Jacobs.”

“I guess not.”

“Though you probably meet this particular one just about every day. I was goofing with him, you know? On account of the man’s got a little bit of an accent. He from the Indies?”

“Somewhere down there.”

“Yeah, well, I asked for you, and he repeated your name, like to take the message? Except the vowel sound came out more oo than uh. Like Scooder, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So he asks my name, and I may have been, you know, the least bit high at the time.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Under the righteous influence of a benevolent herb, if you can dig it. And I thought, Right, I’m the Scooter calling for Mr. Scooder. And, well, you can see how we sort of went around in circles from there.”

“I figured it was something like that.”

“Abbott and Costello,” he said. “ ‘Who’s on first?’ Them the cats you mean?”

“The very gentlemen.”

“Can’t keep ’em straight, though. Abbott and Costello. Which one had the mustache?”

“Neither one.”

“Neither one? You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “Uh, Scooter—”

“You’re wondering why I called.”

“I guess I am.”

“High-Low Jack,” he said. “You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Because you didn’t say anything for a minute there. That was what you asked me when you were over here, right? After we talked about Lucille?”

“Right.”

“You wanted to know about his name. What it meant, where it came from. Right?”