'I'm on the sixth floor. Sorry, Jackie -- no elevator. Want a piggyback ride?'
I ignored him, tackling the stairs with as much dignity as I could. It wasn't much. By the third flight I was a sweating, shaking mess.
'You don't mind if I go on ahead, do you, Jackie? No offense, but I don't like watching the Special Olympics either.'
I nodded, gasping for breath.
'Just three more flights, last office on the left. I'll come check your progress in ten minutes or so.'
He trotted off, and I bit back the pain and doubled my efforts. I reached the top sopping wet with perspiration. A circle of blood had seeped up through my pants leg. I had to put my head between my knees so I didn't pass out.
McGlade had left the office door open for me. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a magazine called Plucky Beaver. It had nothing to do with wildlife.
'Glad you could drop by, Jackie. You want some club soda for those pants? I think I've got some bandages too.'
'Don't trouble yourself.'
'No trouble, just take a minute.'
'Thanks,' I managed. Though God knew why I was thanking him. I took a seat opposite his desk and struggled out of my sweater. His office was tidy compared to his apartment. Almost respectable. The blinds matched the carpet, four lamps shared the floor with several healthy ficus trees, and his desk and file cabinet were stained oak. The only Harryesque touch was the painting on the wall, a cubist portrait of a nude woman with large blue triangles for nipples.
I got my breathing under control, and Harry returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquid.
'Out of club soda. I've got Diet Sprite. Does that take stains out?'
'I don't think so.'
Harry shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. I took the gauze and was directed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was freshly bandaged and the bloodstain had been scrubbed out.
'Did you find her file yet?'
'Huh? I hadn't been looking. Check out this Rack of the Month.' Harry showed me the centerfold. 'Think those are real?'
'McGlade...'
'Think of her back problems...'
'Harry. The files.'
'Yeah. Okay.'
He tore himself away from the magazine and went to a file cabinet in the corner of the room.
'What month was it?'
'April.'
From the top drawer of the file cabinet he removed an open box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. He upended it over his desk, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. I picked one up and he snatched it from my hand.
'Don't mess with my organization. This is a complicated filing system.'
'It looks like you just stuffed all of your April reports in an empty cereal box.'
'To the layman, yes, that's what it looks like. But to my computerlike brain it is infinitely more complex. Aha!'
He held up a slip of paper.
'That's a coupon for baby oil,' I told him.
He put it in his jacket pocket and kept searching.
'Let's see. Metcalf. Theresa Metcalf. Here we go.'
He scanned through the report, which had been handwritten on notebook paper. I took a glance at it myself and couldn't make out the chicken scratches.
'Okay. She hired me to follow her boyfriend. I can't make out his name. It looks like Tommy. Or Johnny. I think it was Tommy.'
'It was Johnny.'
'That's what I said. Johnny. She gave me two hundred up front. Wanted to know if he was cheating on her. Gave me another two bills when I finished the job.'
'What did you find out?'
'Hey, my client has a right to privacy.'
'She's dead.'
'Oh, yeah. To hell with her privacy then. Her boyfriend was dipping the wick in another pot. I shot two rolls of film on them. I think I still have some copies. Want me to look?'
'No, thanks.'
