The Dirty Duck Read Free Page A

there.”
    â€œMost visitors haven’t. Nothing there especially interesting except rather pretty villages in rather pretty country.”
    â€œListen,” said Harvey Schoenberg, shouldering open the heavy door of the church, “don’t knock it.” He said it as if Melrose had been discrediting his homeland. “I only wish July was like this in D.C.”
    â€œExactly where is Deezey?” asked Melrose, puzzled.
    Schoenberg laughed. “You know. Washington, D.C.”
    â€œAh. Your capital city.”
    â€œYeah. Of the good old U.S. of A. Hell of a climate, though, let me tell you.”
    Melrose had just decided to leave the church walk for the riverbank when Schoenberg, walking beside him, said, “Who’s Lucy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLucy.” Schoenberg pointed down at the stone walk. The inscription lay carved in the stone at their feet. “She a friend of Shakespeare’s or something?”
    â€œI think it’s probably a family name, the Lucys.” With his silver-knobbed walking stick, Melrose pointed to the left and right, to the ground beneath the lime trees. “Buried there or here, I imagine.”
    â€œWeird. We walking on graves?”
    â€œUm. Well, I thought I’d walk by the river, Mr. Schoenberg. Nice meeting—”
    â€œOkay.” He hitched the strap of the big metal box farther up on hisshoulder and continued with Melrose across the grass. He was rather like a lost dog whose head one had patted in the park and who wasn’t about to let one off so easily.
    â€œI notice things,” said Schoenberg, folding a stick of gum into his mouth, “because I’m collecting information for a book.”
    It would, Melrose thought, be ungentlemanly of him not to inquire into its nature, and so he did.
    â€œIt’s on Shakespeare,” said Schoenberg, chomping away happily.
    Inwardly, Melrose heaved a sigh. Oh, dear. Why in heaven’s name would this American, his face as freshly scrubbed as a new potato, want to go wading into the shoals of those dangerous waters?
    â€œThere must be a whole sea of books on Shakespeare, Mr. Schoenberg; aren’t you afraid you’ll drown?”
    â€œHarve. Drown? Hell, no. What I’ve got is something completely new. It’s really more on Kit Marlowe than Shakespeare.”
    Melrose was almost afraid to ask: “Exactly what is your subject? I hope it hasn’t to do with establishing authenticity.”
    â€œAuthenticity? Meaning who wrote them?” Schoenberg shook his head. “I’m writing about life more than literature. It’s really Marlowe I’m interested in, anyway.”
    â€œI see. As a scholar? Are you affiliated with some institution?”
    â€œNever even got my master’s. I leave the egghead crap to my brother. He’s chairman of English at this college in Virginia. I’m meeting him in London in a few days. Me, I’m a computer programmer.” He patted the metal box and hitched the strap up on his shoulder.
    â€œReally? I have always felt there were far too many department chairmen in the world and far too few computer programmers.”
    Harvey Schoenberg’s smile was wide. “Well, there’s going to be a lot more, Mel. The computer is going to change the world. Like this little baby, here.” And he tapped the box as if it were a bundle of literal baby.
    Melrose stopped in his tracks, and some hungry swans, hoping for action, rowed over. “You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Schoenberg—”
    â€œHarve.”
    â€œâ€”that that is a computer?”
    Harvey Schoenberg’s dark eyes glittered through the cobweb of shadows the willows cast across his face. “You bet your little booties, Mel. Want to see it? On second thought, let me buy you a beer and I’ll tell you all about it. Okay?”
    Not staying for an answer, Harvey started walking away.
    â€œWell,