CHAPTER TWO
A MAVERICK. I liked that. And unprofessional, so I was two for two. I didn’t know her dad from Bill Cosby, but that maverick thing was just great. I could see putting that on a pebbled window on my noir office door in a dim hallway—a door with a bullet hole or two in it for the feng shui. Or . . .
“I should have a sign in front of my office with a bullet hole in it,” I said. “Mort Angel, Maverick PI.”
Her smile looked a little green, and I didn’t think it was from the lighting. Her skin was a creamy shade of walnut. She was Halle Berry black, maybe one shade lighter, and every bit as beautiful, but taller. I figured her for five-eight, five-nine, with a body that would leave nothing but heartbreak and dreams in her wake. A scent of lilac came off her, so subtle it might have been my imagination.
“Wouldn’t that be Mortimer Angel, Maverick PI?”
“Mortimer? Don’t know anyone by that name,” I said. “Sounds like it’d have to be a birth certificate error. There was a Snerd by that name, but he was a dummy.”
“You’re a maverick, but not a Mortimer?”
“Right.”
“So, all that hoopla on the news last year was wrong?”
“Right.”
“Right it was wrong—or wrong it was right?”
“Well, I didn’t say wrong, so it couldn’t have been the latter, but you sound a lot like me when I want to be annoying.”
She offered up a half-smile. “It’s a knack.”
“Spooky. I’ve got a lot of cool knacks, too, but I would find it very annoying if you’re as annoying as me. Buy you a drink?”
The girl slid off the stool. She hadn’t been there one full minute and already she was starting to attract attention, as gorgeous girls do. More heavy breathing was coming from the three losers at the end of the bar. She looked at them, then back at me. “I can’t stay. I mean, now’s not a good time. Those guys are ogling, and it’s likely the two women you were with will be back soon. Do you have a card? Like a business card?”
I did. Proudly, I got one out of my wallet. It said Mort Angel, Private Investigator, Clary Investigations. I made a mental note to change that to “Maverick PI” as soon as possible and have another five hundred cards printed up.
She wrote a number on the back as the bartender, Patrick O’Roarke, eased closer to get in on the action. “Call me,” she said. “Tomorrow morning right at ten.”
“Right at?”
“Ten. I’ll have my phone on, waiting.” She turned to go.
“Hey, hold on a minute, Buttercup.”
“What?”
“For starters, who’s your dad? The guy who doesn’t like me?”
“Tomorrow, Mortimer. I can’t talk here.” She cast an eye at O’Roarke, who was hovering, giving her an admiring male look.
“Mort. At least tell me your name.”
“Danya.”
She walked away. I watched her go. I had to—just one of those things that can’t be helped, at least not without special drugs and a lobotomy. The dress was short and tight and she was slender, model perfect, hips like a dancer, legs long and shapely. The weird thing, though, was that I hadn’t gotten a vibe of sexual tension from her, no estrogen mist trying to pull me in. She was a hell of a sight, but that was all. Strange. Maybe my PI aura was on the fritz and this was the first sign of its going dark.
“Man,” O’Roarke said, voice brimming with awe. “I gotta get me a PI license.”
“Or a lobotomy,” I said.
“Yeah, that’d do it. Have to be a good one though, not one of those do-it-yourself lobotomies.”
Holiday and Maude Clary came back as Danya was leaving. Holiday slid onto the once-again-vacated barstool. “Wow! Who was that?”
“Danya.”
“Danya who?”
“Wish I knew.” I looked at the back of my card. All she’d left was a number. I stuck it in my wallet. Twenty-six years ago, it would have been right next to a never-to-be-used condom.
“You don’t know her, huh?”
“Nope.”
“She just sidled in and sat down next to you?”
“Sidled? I’m not sure. How about you demo that for me and I’ll let you know.”
“She was real pretty, Mort.”
“Uh-huh. How do you know she sat next to me? She leave a ring of fire on the barstool?”
“Close. It’s that smoldering envy in O’Roarke’s eyes.”
I gave O’Roarke a look, and he grinned and moved away.
“So, what’d she want?” Holiday asked.
“A phone call. At ten tomorrow morning.”
She smiled easily. “You gonna do that?” Like Jeri before her, Holiday wasn’t the jealous type. It had taken me quite a while to come to grips with that, but eventually I’d had to admit that she had no intention of staking a claim on my hide. Whatever we had wasn’t destined to be forever.
“Don’t know yet,” I said.
On the stool to my left, Ma said, “We’re between cases. Might be business we could use.”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s business, it’s my business, so don’t scare her off.”
“Scare her off ? A big old pussycat like me? I don’t know how you come up with off-the-wall stuff like that, Ma.”
“Like I said, don’t scare her off.”
Holiday took my hand again. “Yeah, don’t scare her off. Just remember I get you on Tuesdays.”
I put an arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze. “Not the kind of thing that slips my mind, woman.”
Ma stared at us. “You two don’t quit horsing around, I’m gonna unroll a fire hose or call 911.”
“Settle down, Ma,” I said.
“Right. Me settle down.” She knocked an empty glass against the bar. “Hit me again, Pat, you doll, you,” she said to O’Roarke. She gave me a look. “That Danya girl . . . whatever she wants, don’t go makin’ headlines again, boyo. She looked like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“Beautiful, busty, slinky, trouble.”
“I’ve learned not to trust that sort of thing, Ma.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Holiday here. It’s her fault. She’s beautiful, busty, slinky, pretended to be a hooker last year, which is sort of like
