The Man Who Loved Women to Death by David Handler Read Free Book Online

for size, she responded with a blank stare.
    Followed by “I just have two little words for you: Robert James Waller.” I drank my tea and shivered, chilled to the bone. What I really wanted to do was take two aspirin, gargle and get under a nice warm bed.
    What I did was walk uptown to Osners with my hands in my pockets and my mood foul, Lulu trailing a step behind me, nose, ears and tummy to the ground. Something had started to gnaw me about the answer man. Something about the way he wrote—his tone, his style, his voice. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. It was just a vague itch. But I don’t like vague itches. They frequently lead to scratching, followed by excessive bleeding.
    Who was he? Why had he chosen me? Why me?
    Osners, which is on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam, is one of my vital lifelines. If they ever close their doors I’ll probably have to give up writing altogether. Because there’s nobody else left anymore who can keep a fifties vintage Olympia solid-steel manual portable up and running and in serious enough shape to pound out a book. Just Osners, where the old manual typewriters are stacked on shelves to the rafters and the whole place smells of lubricating oil and ink, pungent scents of a bygone era. Stanley Adelman’s widow, Mary, runs the place with an air of aristocratic, old-world dignity. Three full-time repairmen work the bench, taking apart two dozen antique machines a week, piece by piece, giving them chemical baths in vats down in the cellar, lubricating them, reassembling them. Parts are hard to come by. Some they have to make themselves. I bring them my Olympia twice a year. They keep it for a week. When I get it back it is like a new machine. A new machine that is forty years old.
    If you want to know anything about a typewriter you ask Mrs. Adelman.
    “I have a lovely Olympia just in, Mr. Hoag,” she informed me crisply. Mrs. Adelman was always looking to sell me a backup. “Same vintage as yours. Excellent condition. It’s a Scandinavian model, with accents, but it would serve you quite well. Just ignore what you don’t understand.”
    “That’s certainly gotten me through life so far,” I said, grinning at her.
    “You should do that more often, Mr. Hoag.”
    “Do what, Mrs. Adelman?”
    “Smile. You have a very nice smile.”
    “I had them bleached.”
    “Bleached, Mr. Hoag?”
    “My teeth.”
    “Ah,” she said doubtfully. “I see.”
    I unbuttoned my coat and got out my copy of the answer man’s cover letter. I hadn’t told Very I’d made a Xerox of the whole thing. I saw no reason to. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d be surprised. I laid the page out on the counter and said, “What can you tell me about the machine that typed this? They’re thinking of selling.”
    Mrs. Adelman reached for a magnifying glass and examined the page carefully. “It’s a pica machine, Mr. Hoag. Not in good condition. The letters need cleaning. Also realignment. They’re not striking evenly. No doubt needs a new roller, too. I can only imagine the condition the carriage is in. I’d say a complete overhaul is called for. We’d be honored to do it for you, but it would run you at least a hundred-fifty, plus parts.”
    “Do you know the machine?”
    “I should say not. It wouldn’t be in such sad condition if I did.”
    “What kind is it?”
    “Why, it’s an Olivetti Studio 44, of course.”
    Her reply shot through me from head to toe. So that explained the itch.
    “You can tell by the graceful quality of the characters,” Mrs. Adelman explained. “The lower-case A in particular. See the way it curls in upon itself? There’s not another machine like it. The vintage is early sixties. I would guess sixty-two, but I would not swear to it. It’s a steel machine. One of their more handsome designs. Sleek, streamlined profile. Pale green body with black keys. Flip-down return handle. Red leather case with brass hardware. An exquisite machine, really.