Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [3]
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