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1
Dusk, Sunday
He drops what has to be at least ten grand in front of me.
“I hope that’s enough for you to at least listen,” he says.
“It is.” I take it and set it in my lap under the desk. Next to my .44 Magnum. For ten grand I’ll listen to a drill bit shoved up someone’s ass. Even if, at the end of our conversation I look this cat in the eye and tell him I’m not for hire, I’m keeping his money.
“I want you to work for me,” he says. “Word has it you’re, uhhh...good at what you do.” He runs the back of his hand across his upper lip. Wipes away sweat beads collected in his mustache. In this setting, under these circumstances, that sweat can only mean one thing.
“I’m a private detective,” I say. “Not an assassin.”
“Come again?”
“If you want someone found, I’ll find him.” I lean in, smoke curling from my nostrils. Dragon. “If you want someone murdered, take a fucking hike.” Looming, I jab a thumb at the office door.
“No, no, no. I want someone found. That’s all. Found,” he says. More sweat beads. No eye contact. Fidgeting.
He wants someone murdered.
Clarence T. Petticoat. Fifties, tan and lean. Well dressed. Pretty. It is obvious by his appearance that his appearance matters. He’s a real estate giant in the city. I know he handles residential stuff—mostly top dollar cookie-cutter mini-mansions—but his real gig? Commercial. Looking at this guy, it makes sense.
The scene: my office. Last week of March. Spring has come in weak doses but it’s getting a little stronger every day. The last hour of daylight bleeds through my picture window and fights a losing battle to illuminate the room through the veil of cigarette smoke and dust.
Petticoat looks nervous like he’s a middle schooler buying pot for the first time. A man this successful in a business where one must be equal parts smooth, charming and ruthless doesn’t become this flaccid in front of strangers. Whether he considers it this way or not, he wants me to be his employee if not a business partner. He’s quaking and jabbering over a twenty-year-old wound like it happened yesterday. He’s good. I’ll give him that. He’s got the whole broken man act going on and half of it is grade A horseshit. I’ll stake that the pain is at least based on a kernel of truth.
The best lies are.
I adjust in my seat and eyeball him. “I’ve seen your type. And, on a side note, I’ve arrested most of them for kiddie porn, but that’s neither here nor there. Mr. Petticoat, you offer me ten big ones ‘just to listen.’ All the sweat. All the nerves. The way you checked the street when you walked up to the building. The way you scanned the hall as you came to my office. Even from my window I can see plain as day you drove a rental here. You’re a shrewd business man and word has it you’re as cutthroat as they come in high-stakes real estate. So cut the shit. You’re nervous about something and it ain’t finding someone.”
“I know how this looks,” he says. Clears his throat. “I just want someone found.”
“Of course. Sure you do. Who then?” I ask.
“I don’t know his name. All I know is he killed my wife.”
I raise an eyebrow and Petticoat immediately babbles, “Well—I guess I should say, er—what I mean is, he led to the death of my wife. That’s more accurate.”
I keep the eyebrow up. “Led to her death? Did he kill her?”
“She killed herself.”
“Did he sell her dope and she OD’d on it?”
“No. They never met like that.”
