name and institutional number on the outside. Stamped with my bold red
The buzzer sounded, telling me either I or the dope-crazed hippies in the lower loft had a customer. I switched the toggle over to
A woman’s voice came back from downstairs, “I would like to see Mr. Burke, please.”
I hit the second switch on the recorder, and my faithful secretary asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s very important. I don’t mind waiting.”
I thought for a second, contemplated the state of my finances, and selected another switch from the two remaining. “Very well. Please come up and Mr. Burke will see you shortly.”
“Thank you,” came the woman’s voice.
As soon as I hit the opener for the downstairs door, which also sends down the elevator, I went through the back door to the fire escape and climbed out past the connecting window to the second office. I kept going until I was near the end of the building, where I had a periscope mounted to give me a view of the entire hall from the elevator on down. It was a miserable arrangement even with the floodlights in the corridor-when it was raining or dark outside, you couldn’t see that much-but at least you could tell if it was more than one person outside the office door. It wasn’t this time and I went back inside.
Pansy growled softly. I adjusted the fake Persian rug on the right-hand wall (the second office is against the left wall) so that it looked as though there were a connecting door, and I opened the outer door just as she was getting ready to knock again. I motioned her to come inside and sit on the low couch next to my desk, activated a switch to open the phony intercom, and said “Sally, hold my calls for a while, okay?” A quick push of the second switch got me “Certainly, Mr. Burke.” I then turned to look at my new client.
The low couch usually bothers people but this lady couldn’t have cared less. I guess she measured about five feet total (maybe an inch or so less), white-blonde hair, high forehead, thin nose, wide-set dark eyes, and a kind of thick chunky build you would call buxom if you hadn’t had a look at her from the waist down. I hadn’t yet so I mentally settled for old-fashioned “buxom.” She wore wide-legged gray wool slacks over medium-heeled black boots, a white turtleneck pullover covered by one of those unstructured ladies’ jackets, no hat, no jewelry that I could see, pale lipstick, too much eyeliner, and some rouge that didn’t quite hide the tiny scar just under her right eye. It looked as though someone had engraved a tic-tac-toe crosshatch with a fine scalpel. She crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knee; one of the knuckles had a faint bluish tinge.
Everything fit together on her nicely but you can’t always tell what a woman spends on her get-up the way you can with a man-no jewelry, for example, didn’t mean she was broke. She sat as calmly as a toad waiting for flies, and the dog’s presence didn’t seem to unsettle her. It didn’t look like a matrimonial to me, but I’ve made a career out of being wrong. So I just asked, “How can I help you?” in my neutral professional voice.
Now that she wasn’t coming over the speaker, her voice sounded like she forgot to clear her throat. “I want you to find somebody for me.”
“Why?” Not that I give a senator’s morals for her reasons, but this kind of question usually gives you a good clue to how much money the customer wants to spend.
“Is that important?” she asked.
“It is to me. How do I know you don’t want to find this person and do some damage to them, for example?”
“If I did, you wouldn’t take the job?”
I didn’t need sarcasm this early in the morning. Even Pansy grinned appreciatively at her before rolling over and cracking another piece of her marrow bone.
“I didn’t say that. But I have to know what I’m getting into…”
“So you can fix the price?”
Okay, sure I have to fix the price. But she obviously didn’t understand the complexities of my business. If I put a flat fee on the job and I find the guy right away, I make some money. But if I don’t, then I’m out a lot of time and I don’t make out so well. And if I set a daily rate and happen to find the guy right away, I still have to keep him under surveillance for a few more days before I turn him over to the client so that I make a decent buck. I do a lot of locates, especially for bondsmen, but I don’t bring the people in myself-I have a gorilla I use for that work and I can only use him when he’s out of jail. He’s such a genius that I once got him to turn himself in on a bail-jumping rap for half the commission. So I said, “I get paid for the work I do and the risks I take, just like anyone else. If I have to go looking down a sewer, I have to be paid for the possibility of rat bites even if I don’t get bit, you understand?”
“Yes, I understand quite well. But I don’t have time to bargain with you. I’m not a good bargainer. I will pay you a thousand dollars if you will spend one week trying to find him-period.”
I pretended to think that one over. It was no contest-a grand a week is more than what some legitimate private eyes make.
“Okay, sounds reasonable to me. I’ll just need some basic facts and then I’ll get right to work.”
“Are you sure you can clear your calendar?” she wanted to know.
“Look, I didn’t solicit this business, right? If you would prefer someone more in tune with your social station, just say the word. I’m sure you can find your own way out.”
“All right, I’m sorry-maybe that wasn’t necessary. But I don’t want you to think I’m some dummy you can pull a cop-and-blow on.”
(That was a funny one. She didn’t look like a hooker-and she couldn’t be paying me to find a pimp. If those weasels aren’t visible, they’re not earning. And if they’re not earning, they’re hanging around some dummy’s apartment, spending the welfare check and planning their big comeback.)
“Where did you hear an expression like that?”
“I read it in a book. Let’s cut the snappy dialogue-just tell me who to make my check out to.”
“Make it out to cash. Then take it to your bank, hand it to the teller, exchange it for greenbacks and bring them all back to me. I’ll be happy to give you a receipt, but we don’t take checks in this business.”
Kind of hard to take checks when you don’t have a bank account, but let her think that her own honesty wasn’t exactly certified at my end.
“Okay, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She got off the couch, sort of shook herself so her clothes settled back on her frame without a wrinkle, and went over to the door. Her hips moved the way a woman’s do when she’s annoyed but not ready to sever the relationship. Even Pansy seemed entranced-she called upon some hidden reserves of energy and raised her massive head a couple of inches to watch the lady leave. I’m not one of those who wants to see a check so he can tell what bank the customer is using-who cares? Anyone with half a brain knows how to get around that dodge, and she looked like she had more than enough smarts.
If I was a detective, I would have spent the next few hours productively trying to deduce what kind of case this was. I never read Sherlock Holmes but I saw all the movies, so I did the intelligent thing and totally analyzed her character from her clothes. I came up with a flat zero. When I checked it out with Pansy, she confirmed my diagnosis.
I picked up the telephone gently to see if the trust-fund hippies downstairs were discussing one of their major marijuana deals again. It’s their phone-I simply had an associate hook me up an extension so I could make calls without the inconvenience of monthly bills. But I don’t abuse the setup-I have a good supply of slugs for the pay phone downstairs when I have to go long distance. The line was clear, which it usually it is until the late afternoon when the hippies get up-it must be nice not to have to work for a living. Thinking about it, I was sure that the lady would be back soon, and I’m not a man to leave money lying around uninvested. So I put in a quick call to my broker, Maurice.
“Yeah?” came the friendly greeting.
“Maurice, this is Burke. Give me a yard to win on the three-horse in the seventh tonight at Yonkers.”
