“Gigolo.”
“Ten grand.”
He was silent for a moment. “A well-paid gigolo. Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“And I get the feeling there may be more to this.”
“Hey, ten grand, James. That’s damned good hazard pay.”
“You weren’t going to tell me.”
I could tell his feelings were hurt. “Listen. I’m getting paid. And there is more to this.”
He was holding the cigarette with one hand, steering and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with his other. “So spill.”
“I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”
“We’re reversing roles here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I tend to be the one who goes out on a limb. Our relationship-” he took another mouth full of smoke, “it depends on me being the adventurous one. You are the voice of reason, amigo.”
“Usually.”
“So we’re reversing roles.”
I shrugged my shoulders. A Cadillac Escalade entered the highway, and James slowed down to let it ease into traffic. Before he died, James’s father dreamed of driving a Cadillac, and James always showed a lot of respect for any of their vehicles. He swore he’d own a Cadillac or two or three before he was thirty.
“What sparked this moment of adventure?”
I had the answer ready for him. “Greed.”
My partner was quiet for a minute, maybe two. He never took his eyes off the road as we hit highway 95 and cruised along, past the concrete and stucco buildings, the myriad entrances and exits, the cement walls that rose on the side of the highway, sheltering the residential communities from the noise of traffic.
Finally I had to speak. “I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry. I mean, we’re not married, man. And even married couples don’t share everything.”
He didn’t say a word.
“All right. Here’s the rest of the story.”
James glanced at me, his eyes wide and bright. My buddy from fourth grade. My best friend. Ready for another quest. I needed him. Right now. “I had a meeting with Carol Conroy this afternoon.”
“What?”
“Sandler Conroy’s wife.”
“Oh, man, you didn’t tell her about-”
“Never came up.”
“Then pray tell, what was this meeting about?”
“She wants to hire me.”
“Skip, you’re already hired. You’ve got two jobs at Synco Systems. Setting up the security system and pretending to be Sarah’s boyfriend. I mean, what the hell else is there?”
“I accepted a third position.”
“Pard! What are you doing?”
And I told him. I told him how Carol Conroy thought that Walters’s death may not have been suicide. I told him about Tony Quatman and his secretary. I told him that she didn’t feel close to her father, and she didn’t seem to care about her husband. Actually said that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about Sandler Conroy. And finally I told him that Mrs. Conroy thought she might be in line to be murdered.
We swung off the highway by the Miami Dolphin stadium and headed to our apartment complex.
“You still haven’t told me how much.”
“After all that, and you want to know how much? Aren’t you worried about a woman who thinks she’s going to be murdered?”
James tossed his cigarette out the window, the sparks scattering brightly in the air. “Maybe I should be more worried that she trusts you to prevent the murder. I’m not sure I’d even trust you when it comes to that.”
“I told you. I may have gone too far.”
“How much?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Have you noticed that I have no idea what I’m looking for? She didn’t give me a clue what I should expect.”
He was quiet again.
“Okay. She didn’t give me a clue as to what we should expect.”
James gave me a wry smile. “Whatever the lady wants us to look for, that’s what we’ll look for. It sounds like she’s going to make it up as she goes.”
“I had my first assignment today.”
“You’re just gung-ho about making all this money, compadre. I’m proud of you.”
“James, someone was messing around with her Lexus.”
“Lexus?” His eyes were bright. The fact that someone was messing around wasn’t important. The fact that the lady owned an expensive luxury car-well “Lexus. It looked like maybe he was doing something to the tires.”
“And?”
“I tried to chase him down, but somebody picked him up in a Honda Civic.”
“What did he look like?”
“Short, Asian, maybe in his thirties, but I didn’t get that close.”
“Skip?”
“What?”
“How much?”
“James, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Something else I didn’t mention.”
My partner shook his head. “How much have you kept from me, amigo? If you don’t want me involved, just say so.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“So spill.”
“Sarah said this involved a contract with the federal government.”
“This guy who invented the security system for the computers. Tony Quatman. He invented this for the government?”
“Department of Defense.”
“Heavy stuff.”
“Yeah.”
We were both quiet as James drove. This was way over our heads. Way.
“And he’s disappeared?”
“Gone. No trace.”
“His secretary?”
“Gone.”
“Mmmm.”
“That’s it? Mmmm?”
“How much?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, James.”
“How much?”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out Carol Conroy’s yellow pencil, and wrote the figure on a discarded candy wrapper between our seats. I turned the figure toward James. The dashboard lights were bright enough for him to see the numbers.
“Ten thousand dollars? Dude.”
“If we do the job. And she’s throwing in another five thousand if we get any hard information.”
“Fifteen grand?”
“Fifteen grand.” I studied the pencil. Printed on the side in bold black letters were the words Tiny Tots Academy.
“Listen to me, compadre. It’s not a good idea.”
I couldn’t believe it. James, of all people, was saying it wasn’t a good idea. “So now you’re the voice of reason?”
“It’s not a good idea, Skip. For fifteen grand? It’s a great idea.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
E arly the next morning James drove me back to my car. I made about five sales calls, till early afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it. Hell, my heart was never in it. I was like a machine, walking into a home and trying to convince these residents of Carol City that they needed a security system. A lot of these people were unemployed and those that actually worked for a living didn’t make as much as I did. We live in a pretty depressed area.
My thoughts were all about Synco Systems. Why couldn’t I find one of those companies about once a week? Once a month? Once every six months?
The last couple I met with actually lived in an apartment two blocks from where James and I slept. They were both home in the middle of the afternoon so it was obvious they didn’t have day jobs. And then the two admitted they were about ready to be thrown out of their living quarters and the only reason they’d signed up for an interview was that they wanted to win the free cruise to the Bahamas that Michael was advertising. The winner had to pay a security deposit, food deposit, sailing deposit, and all taxes and tips. Then, voila, the trip was free.
“So, if we buy this system-”
I stared at the big guy, locking eyes with him. “Look, Mr. Whitman, you don’t need this system.”
Mrs. Whitman, an overweight lady who pushed the limits on the waistband of her jeans, spoke up. “But if we put a down payment on the system, what are our odds? What kind of a chance do we get on winning the Bahama cruise?”
I couldn’t do it. I figured they’d call Michael and tell him how bad my social skills were, but it didn’t matter. I shoved my sales manuals, the book, and flyers into my case and stood up.
“You don’t need this. Your chance of winning a free trip are zip, and even if you did, it would cost you more than it’s worth. Seriously, you don’t need a security system. Take the money and pay an extra month’s rent on your apartment.” I walked out of their humble abode and didn’t look back.