from the bank; my special checking account was down to sixty bucks. There was a mimeographed letter from the Post Office Department informing me I had been reached on the mail carrier's list and had two weeks in which to tell them if I wanted the job or not. There was an ad, and a letter from a downtown agency, my former boss, Ted Bailey, giving me a skip-tracing job. He always gave me the “coloured” cases. I never knew if he was afraid of the various Harlems throughout New York City or was merely throwing business my way. But I never got a “white' skip-tracing case. A woman named James had bought a combination stove and refrigerator for $320, on time of course, paid in $150 and then left her job and last known address, taking the stove-refrigerator.
So that was the mail. I put the letter from Ted in my pocket, read a morning paper Roy had brought in the night before, and wondered what I'd do about the P.O. job. I didn't want to take it but i? I told Sybil that she'd raise sand. While I was thinking this over, I glanced out the window—my blinds needed dusting—and saw a cab stop and a woman get out. She didn't look like she belonged on 147th Street. Not because of the slightly bewildered way she looked around, or because she was white with delicate copper-coloured hair cut short in an Italian bob snugly about her head; but because she was dressed like mid town Park Avenue. Her clothes were simple, but smart and expensive; her slim figure and handsome face had been given a lot of care—every day. She walked into the hallway and a moment later there was a knock on my door. When I opened it she slowly ran her cool eyes over my hulk, lingering for a long second at my busted nose. She actually pushed past me, walking with a kind of show-girl strut around the room. “You Mr. T. M. Moore?” she asked, talking out the side of her thin mouth.
“That's right.”
“Can you be bought? Will you double-cross me?”
“What?” She didn't look like a loon.
“Will you sell me out to the first bubble-belly dame who crosses your path? I'm in a jam, see? With a statuesque blonde who's been had by a redhead, also statuesque, see? But the mastermind is a gray-headed babe who only is Junoesque—on her father's side. Ya got the angle, Mac?” She strode over to me and slapped my chest and hips. “What, no rod? You can be reported to the private optic union for not packing a rod,”
“Stop reaching, lady. It's too early for cornballing. What do you want?”
She smiled; her teeth were very white and even and she couldn't have been more than thirty-two. In a crisp, controlled voice she said, “Please excuse me, Mr. Moore. This is my first time in a detective's office and I simply couldn't resist the gag.”
I didn't get the joke but I sat behind my desk, very businesslike, pointed to my Swedish plywood chair as I told her, “Have a seat.”
“Thank you. I approve of your furniture: modern but in low key. My name is Kay Robbens, with an 'e'. Sid Morris recommended you.” She crossed her long legs and smiled again. She didn't have to say she was enjoying herself, that being in a Negro's office was kicks to her.
I relit my pipe slowly, careful not to look at her legs, asked, “Are you in need of a private detective?”
She nodded. Her eyes were faintly made up, a delicate blue on the lids; everything about her face was delicate, maybe even pretty on second look. She took a whiff of my pipe smoke, said, “Lovely spicy odor. What is it?”
“London Dock.”
“Can I borrow some?” She pulled a tiny jeweled pipe out of her bag and I pushed my tobacco pouch across the desk without batting an eye. She wasn't Park Avenue, she was Eighth Street. Sucking on her little pipe she said, “This is nice. Any special store?”
“You can buy it most anyplace. Did Sid recommend my tobacco?”
She slipped me that smile again, sure it was dazzling me, suddenly stood up and walked over to look at my army discharge framed on the wall, the little glass showcase atop my books holding my Bronze Star and Silver Star. She even glanced at my books, then sat down again, openly staring at me over her pipe.
The act was getting a trifle boring. “Thinking of starting your own army?” I asked, wondering how she kept her blue eyes so clear and bright.
“I'm thinking of hiring you as a detective, only I must be absolutely certain of one thing—whether you take the job or not, whatever I tell you now must remain in the strictest confidence. Agreed?”
“I respect the confidence of all my clients.”
“Good. I like the way you look. If I hire you it will be for a minimum of one month. I can pay fifty dollars a day, plus moderate expenses.”
She said it easily; I tried hard to play it cool but—fifteen hundred dollars! I sat up straight, as if I'd been pulled erect, and managed to say casually, “Depends upon what you expect me to do. Has to be legit.”
“This is a shadowing job. I must know where a... somebody... is all the time. It will be your job to see that he stands still, that I can put my hands on him any time I wish.”
I glanced at the thick wedding ring on her left hand. “Sounds okay, Mrs. Robbens, so far.”
She knocked the ashes out of her pipe and took a deep breath. “Here we go, and remember, this must be top secret. I'm in the Press Information Department of Central Televising. At the moment I'm assigned as P.R. to a new show due to premiere shortly. It's to be called You— Detective! and will be carried full net across the country. It's a big-budget show. We rehash some unknown but factual crimes, and offer a reward if any viewer can nab the criminal. It's been done before; you've probably seen similar shows.”
“If it's been done before, why start another one?”
She laughed, real tinkling laughter, as if she were fifteen.
“Mr. Moore, everything has been done before, it's how you do it that makes the selling difference. Our sponsor is a bug on criminals and detectives. A bug with a large drug company and a top advertising budget, so we've been kicking this crime-detective format around for a long time. It will be on film and we already have several shows in the can. Briefly, the idea is we dig up little-known crimes—gory or sexy ones— show the actual scenes of the crime, interview some of the people involved, the police, flash some of the 'wanted' flyers on the TV screen. The narrator is an actor with a rugged square chin like Dick Tracy. He'll be known as the Chief Inspector, and he ends the show by rehashing the clues, adds a few hints from his 'stoolies,' and finally points a thick finger at the audience as he orders his staff to get the fugitive. All corny as hell, isn't it?”
I didn't know whether to nod or not. I shrugged.
“We have quite an audience- participation deal worked out: with two box tops one gets a small badge and a lot of other hocus-pocus. If a person with a badge sends in information that leads to an arrest, or reports it to the police, he gets double the reward a nonbuyer will receive. In short, it is a combination adventure and giveaway show.”
“And makes everybody a stool pigeon.”
Mrs. Robbens wrinkled up her thin nose. “It's low level, moronic, disgusting... and my job.”
“Where do I come in? Am I supposed to dig up cases for the show?”
“No, we have all we need, for now. You're to—” She suddenly noticed Ollie's scratch sheet on my desk, snapped her fingers as she glanced at the expensive watch on her bony wrist. “May I phone my bookie? I have a hunch running in the fourth race.”
She reached across the desk and took my phone before I could say yes or no, dialed somebody named Jack, told him, “This is Kay. I'd like a five-dollar lunch delivered at four. If I'm not around leave it on my desk. I'm busy on a story called Fast Bunny that looks like a winner. Okay? Thanks.” I had a feeling this was an act strictly for my benefit, although I didn't know why she had to impress me. I puffed on my pipe and looked at the sheet; the opening odds on Fast Bunny were 6 to 1.
Putting the phone back she slipped me the cool smile again. “It's silly. Butch and I spend hours at night doping the races, then I usually forget to place a bet in time. Where were we?”
“At where I come into the picture.”
“I'm sorry, I should have explained that first. As I told you, I'm public relations on the show. We have quite a publicity gimmick in the making. On the third week of the show we will use the case of Robert Thomas, wanted by the Ohio police for raping and assaulting a poor sixteen-year-old kid. A brutal crime that took place about six years ago. He's living and working here in New York under the name of Richard Tutt. You're to keep tabs on him.”
“What does 'tabs' mean to you?”
“For the next week or two, until his case is televised, all you do is check that he's on his job every day, that he doesn't move. Won't be much work. However, from the second his 'wanted' flyer is flashed on TV screens, you're to tail him twenty-four hours a day—until we rap him, which will be—”
“Until you do what?”
Her face showed surprise. “Rap him, send him up. That's the big publicity deal. A few hours after his case is shown we have a stooge set to turn Tutt in to the police, claiming it was all a result of our show. I don't have to blueprint the rest; our sponsor does a great deal of advertising, we'll make every paper in the nation and be able to have the stooge planted on several TV news programs. I'm counting on the publicity to shove the show into a top rating.”
“How did you learn where Thomas is now?”
“We do a thorough research job on all cases. One of our writers—he practically originated the show—got the data on Thomas. We used his case to audition the show, as a matter of fact. Now you understand your job: keep Thomas in sight until we're ready to lower the boom on him.”
“This Thomas... is he... I mean, is he coloured?” She looked startled.
“Oh, no. If anything, he's a Southern cracker.”
I'd been on “white” cases before. I mean, I worked every Friday and Saturday as a special doing guard work in a department store where Sid was the personnel manager. Still, my being an all-day tail in a white neighborhood raised a few obstacles. But for fifteen
