I wanted in on that.
Didn’t happen.
In fact, I was left out for thirty long seconds, an afterthought to the evening’s festivities. But slowly I understood it, which is how I understand things. I was the centerpiece. I was their connection. As such, I should have been important, but I was an afterthought.
Eventually they got around to me. Jeri held my arm, looked at Holiday, and said, “Omigod, Mort. I didn’t realize how strong you were. I mean, how strong you had to be.”
Yep, me plenty strong.
“I mean,” Jeri said. “Just look at her.”
Holiday piped up, “He’s a rock. Like Gibraltar.”
“He must’ve been. You, uh, weren’t always dressed up even . . . even that much, were you?”
Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t—
Holiday took Jeri’s hand and said, “Let’s go talk.” She started to lead Jeri away, then tossed me a look. “You should get a drink. We’ll be back after a while,” and Jeri said, “I could use a white wine, Mort.”
Oh, yeah. This was goin’ just great.
But Mike Hammer never had it this good. Oh sure, a stray dame or two crossed his path, but compared to me Mikey was a piker, an amateur. And Spade? Sammy was a nobody, not a blip on a radar screen.
As directed, I delivered the wine then took a stool at the bar. O’Roarke sidled over with a grin on his mug so wide it must’ve hurt.
“How’s it goin’, spitfire?”
“You can’t tell?”
“Nope. I don’t know if you’re a hog in shit or about to get your nuts handed to you. So . . . sarsaparilla or a Pete’s?”
“Pete’s. And a shot of bourbon. The good stuff.”
He shoved a shot glass and a bottle of Wicked Ale toward me then put his elbows on the bar. “You’re somethin’ else with pieces, pal. Amazing, really.”
“Pieces?” I glanced at the girls, chatting animatedly at a table thirty feet away. “Don’t let those two hear you say that.”
“Pieces of people, dude. Heads and hands. You’re on TV all the time. Wish I was that good at something.”
“Oh. Those kind of pieces. It’s a gift.”
He looked at Holiday and Jeri. “There’s your woman with a thousand-dollar-a-night hooker. Explain that, buckaroo.”
“She’s a college student, not a hooker. An engineering major, so that thing about gluing a rat to the mirror was based on real science. She’s only been playing the part of a hooker. Other than those bits of information, I can’t explain a damn thing.”
“They sure are dressed . . . up.”
I leaned closer, lowered my voice. “You’ve been bartending a long time, Patrick, my boy.”
“By no stretch am I your boy, but go ahead.”
“By now you’re about thirty percent psychologist, right?”
“Closer to forty. I’ve been asked to be a guest lecturer up at the university.”
“What do you know about exhibitionism?”
He smiled. “Know it when I see it, man, and I see my share. In here it’s 99.9 percent women. That’s all I know, but I gotta say, it sure don’t bother me none.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JERI AND HOLIDAY talked for an hour and a half. An hour and a half, while I got barstool rash. I didn’t ask Jeri what they discussed. Some things are better left unknown. But when we got home that evening the lovemaking was slow and meaningful and deeply satisfying.
The next morning, however, I tried to nudge a little information loose. Broaching the subject obliquely, I said, “So, what did you two broads talk about last night for five freakin’ hours?”
Jeri laughed. “It wasn’t even two hours. And it was just broad stuff.”
“That’s the same as girl stuff, right? Only riper?”
“And, you know, the bicycle ride next year.”
“Yeah, well, I expected that. Half marathons and bike rides are important. You have to know things, like tire inflation pressures and what to wear—or not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what color body paint to use and what to paint it on?”
She laughed again. “That, too.”
“I’m pretty good with a brush. Point me at a pair of tits and I can really go to town.”
“I’ll bet. She wants to get you on a bike, too. Naked.”
“That’ll be the day.”
That was all I got. They were a sly, slippery, underhanded, and sneaky duo—an entire thesaurus of slick stuff.
And friends, which bordered on eerie.
But that day, Monday, was different—the computer work was a laugh riot, assembling a list of names at a snail’s pace, everyone we could find who had been in Reinhart’s or Wexel’s orbit. We tracked down people who knew their spouses, kids, kids’ spouses—rounded up maiden names, business partners, lawyers, personal physicians, dentists, masseuses. Actually, no masseuses, but that would’ve been a real coup.
Later that afternoon we trudged over to Clary Investigations and passed through a cloud of Camel smoke getting close to Ma’s desk. She was squinting at a computer screen with a hands-free headset on, listening to someone. She held up a finger, making sure we didn’t tip off whoever it was that someone else was in the room.
“I need it by five o’clock, Andy.” Pause. “Hell, yes, today. I’m going like a bat outta hell here. Which means you’re going like a bat, too, if you get my drift.” Pause. “That’s right, snowflake. Clock’s tickin’ so get on it.”
She clicked off, then turned to us. “Andrew Bartlett Hecht. Son of a bitch thinks he can play me, he’s got another think comin’. I got that ol’ boy’s number. What’s up, guys?”
Jeri handed her the list we’d been working on. “Here’s what we’ve got so far, Ma. People close to Reinhart and Wexel.”
Ma looked it over. “This’ll keep me busy.”
“Sorry about that.”
Ma gave her a severe look. “Don’t be. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d . . . well, I don’t know where I’d be. Not here, that’s for sure. One hand washes the other.”
She’d been working the other side of things, tracking down people connected to owners of the SUVs. She gave Jeri a list of the names of people she’d found so far. Jeri and I looked it over. I’d never heard of any of them. Neither
