Max handed the frumpy bear of a man the signature pad, he put on reading glasses and signed where he'd been told, and she asked, “What the hell do you do back here?”
“Private investigations.”
Her eyes widened a little. “You're a detective, huh?… What
of investigations?”
He handed her the clipboard, she handed him the package, wrapped in brown paper; it was a little smaller than a shoe box.
“You know, divorces, runaways, skip trace, stuff like that.” He finally tore his eyes from the package and looked up at her— in his business, even invisible people like messengers rated a once-over. “Why?”
“If I was looking for someone, you could find them.”
“I could try.”
Without an invitation, she eased into the chair opposite Vogelsang, hooked a leg over its arm. “So— what's something like that cost?”
Vogelsang stroked his bearded chin, the package all but forgotten; tossed his glasses on the desk and took the chair back there. “Depends.”
“That's a great answer.”
“Depends on who we're looking for… and how much they don't want to be found.”
A sour feeling blossomed in Max's stomach. Already, she could see where this was heading: money. She'd been living the straight life since she and Original Cindy had landed in Seattle, hadn't pulled a single score; and to tell the truth, she sort of liked it. But she had to find her sibs.
“All right, Mr. Vogelsang— give me an estimate.”
Big shoulders made a tiny shrug. “Thousand-dollar retainer against two hundred a day… plus expenses.”
She rolled her eyes. “You high? I'm a freakin' bike messenger!”
He shrugged, putting the reading glasses back on, his attention returning to the package.
“This office isn't exactly uptown,” Max pointed out. “How can you charge rates like that?”
“The uptown offices don't have my downtown connections… The private eye game is a dirty one.”
“So you set up shop behind a laundry.”
He peered at her over the reading glasses. “Are we done here?”
“Okay, Mr. Vogelsang… let's say I get you the money… ”
He threw the glasses on the desk again. “You got that kind of cash?”
“I can get it.”
“Little girl like you.”
“Don't pry into
business, Mr. Vogelsang.”
“I won't.” He grinned at her; he was like a big naughty hound dog. “Unless somebody pays me to… ”
“If they do, I'll double whatever they give you. I'd be buying loyalty, as well as discretion.”
The detective was studying her, taking in her confident manner, her youth obviously troubling him.
She brushed by that, asking, “How long to get results?”
“This is a missing person?”
“Yes.”
“Without much information to go on?”
“If I had information, I wouldn't need you, would I?”
Another tiny shrug from the big shoulders. “Searching for people is not an exact science, uh… what's your name?”
“Max.”
“Just Max?”
“That a problem?”
“Not if you pay in cash.”
“Count on it.”
The private eye shrugged. “Could be a day, could be never. When your retainer is exhausted, we'll talk. Decide if you're throwing good money after bad. I'm not a thief, Max.”
She mulled that over for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “When can you start?”
He gave her another shrug. “When can you have the money?”
She gave him one back. “Tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”
With a nod, he said, “Which is exactly when I can start. Nice how that worked out.”
“Yeah— it's all good.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I'll be back with a grand. Fill you in then.”
Vogelsang smiled— a big teddy bear of a man who was not at all lovable. He touched his temple with a thick finger. “Got ya mentally penciled in.”
She went straight from Vogelsang's to Crash, where Sketchy, Herbal, and Original Cindy had already commandeered a table and were on a second pitcher of beer.
An old brick warehouse not unlike Jam Pony, the place had been converted to a bar years ago, pre-Pulse. Round brick archways divided the three sections and video monitors, including a massive big screen, displayed footage of stock car races, dirt bike events, and skateboarding, all featuring the wild crashes that gave the bar its name.
Small tables fashioned from manhole covers were scattered around with four or five chairs haphazardly surrounding each. A jukebox cranking out metal-tinged rock hunkered against one wall, and through the nearest archway lay the pool and foosball tables. The entire wall behind the bar was a backlit Plexiglas sculpture of bicycle frames.
“Hey, Boo,” Original Cindy said as Max came up.
With a tired-ass smile, Max took a seat and Sketchy poured her a beer.
Herbal said, “Ah, how goes the battle, my sister?”
Max forced the smile to brighten. “Why it's all good, my brother.”
Herbal smiled and nodded, convinced he had a convert; Sketchy handed Max the beer with his trademark stunned-baby-seal expression.
“You up for some pool, home girl?” Original Cindy asked Max, giving her a sideways look.
Sketchy shook his head and even Herbal's eyes narrowed in warning.
“O. C.'s a shark, Max,” Sketchy said. “Watch your ass.”
“My brother speaks the truth,” Herbal said. “Our sister has already made poor men of us both.”
“Yeah, but it's still all good, right?” Max glanced toward Original Cindy.
With a shrug and no chagrin, she said, “What can I say? Original Cindy's better with balls than these boys.”
Sketchy thought about that, while Max grinned and said, “Well, bring it on, girlfriend, bring it on.”
Leaving the guys at the table, the two young women— though familiar sights around here, they were followed by every male eye in the bar, and a few female, too— sashayed over to an empty table.
Though her analytical ability and enhanced eyesight gave her an advantage, Max still lost three straight games to Cindy.
The encounter with the private detective had been replaying in her mind ever since leaving the Laundromat. Jam Pony paid peanuts, and her bankroll from Moody had been eaten up by travel expenses and the cost of living, not the least of which was paying off that cop at squatter's row. Now she needed a cool k, in less than twenty-four hours… and she had no idea where she was going to get it.
“Had enough, girl?” Original Cindy asked, leaning on her cue.
Max nodded slowly and they headed back to the table.
“You okay, Boo? Your mind's on some other planet.”
“Just a little distracted.”
They reached the table, where Sketchy and Herbal sat before an empty pitcher, with the slightly buzzed expressions to match.
“Somethin' Original Cindy can do?”
