Velda said, "There's nothing Rector wouldn't do for you."
"I'll talk to Pat and get a copy of one of those tapes, and you talk to Vincent. Maybe he can tell us how you can scramble a tape so a voiceprint doesn't come through."
"You got it."
I took a last drag on the butt and let it fizzle out in the remains of my drink. "And tell Bud Tiller thanks. All favors are now officially paid back—strictly cash-and-carry from now on."
Her expression was odd. "Mike..."
"What?"
"You got me all jumpy inside."
"Hell of a time to discuss our love life, kitten."
She folded her arms to her chest and shivered. "I wish it were that kind of jumpy."
"What other kind of jumpy you mean?"
"The in-over-your-head kind. Like ... you can't land a white shark on a twelve-ounce line."
I looked at her and let a slow grin spread across my face.
"You can," I said, "if you use a hand grenade for bait."
"Really?" she asked. "And whose dead meat are you going to wrap it in?"
If you didn't decide to go to the movies, you wouldn't have walked past the construction site where they dropped a brick on your head.
Or if the doll you wound up marrying had never taken the wrong turn down that hall, she would never have met you.
That's coincidence.
You hook up with a whore, screw her silly, and catch the clap.
That's not coincidence.
I cut in to save a working kid's ass from three punks and two of them get killed and another hospitalized because I happen to have a client at a building where the shit went down. That's coincidence.
A bastard tries to knife me in the back and two hit men wait for me in my own lobby to blow my brains out. That's not coincidence.
But the trouble was conceived in coincidence, incubated in curiosity, and given birth with inquiry—all uptown in a strange backyard where the bridge and the park and the towers of Manhattan loomed behind me like the disinterested spectators they were.
The last customers at the Village Ceramics Shoppe were having their packages wrapped while a pudgy, balding, tired-looking middle-aged man waited impatiently by the door to lock up when I edged in. He had the weary expression of minor managerial authority, so I supposed he was Mr. Elmain and said to him, "Just have to give Miss Vought a message," and brushed on past.
There were no green smudges this time, no smock or dusty hands, just a lovely, shapely blonde in a navy blue suit topped by a pert little hat and a ready smile.
I said, "Be a shame to get that smart outfit dirty."
"It's suppertime, Mr. Hammer," she said. Her eyes did that little dance again. "You do eat, don't you?"
"I'm a card-carrying carnivore. Maybe we could do it together?"
"Do what together?"
"Eat. Let's make it my treat."
"What makes you think I don't already have a date?"
"I'd be surprised if you didn't. I was hoping you'd cancel."
That made her laugh—a nice throaty one. "And I was hoping you'd ask. Date accepted."
She excused herself and went off to use a phone at the rear of the workshop/storeroom. I couldn't hear the conversation, but it didn't last long, and soon she was returning, her smile turned up at the corners.
She tilted her head, pulling on her coat. "I'll try not to act frightened by your rather ... unconventional appearance."
"Nobody ever accused me of being a pretty boy."
"I think you'll do quite nicely," she said.
Another Neanderthal-lover.
"Now," she said, "where do you intend to take me?"
I shrugged and grinned at her. "This isn't my turf, ma'am. Suppose you pick the spot."
She tinkled a laugh at me and nodded. "Okay, we'll try a little French place I know. It's chic, secluded, and the food is delicious. It's quite expensive, but I didn't promise to be a cheap date."
"No, you didn't."
She shrugged and blonde tresses bounced. "Anyway, between courses you can interrogate me."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Because it's too early to do anything else."
"It's never that early," I said.
"No, I don't suppose it would be," she told me, with an appraising look. "Not for you, Mr. Hammer."
I ushered her through the curtained portals from the back room into the shop, where the presumed Mr. Elmain opened the door with a smile and closed it behind us without one.
"That's the boss?" I asked.
"That's the boss. He's really very sweet."
"I'll take your word for it."
Le Petite wasn't quite what I had expected. It was in an odd little corner of the city that I wasn't familiar with. A half-dozen chauffeur-driven limousines lined the curb, the drivers clustered in a group, most of them smoking, some eating sandwiches from home, all of them talking in low tones.
The uniformed doorman greeted Shirley Vought by name and held the door open for us. Inside, the maitre d' repeated the performance and personally escorted us to a finely carved oaken booth as though my date owned the place. The captain was equally solicitous, hovering over us as if attending a queen.
I didn't miss the glances we got from several other tables, including a couple of envious looks from a pair of national television personalities. My mug was well-known enough to garner that kind of reaction, at least in some quarters, but I could tell the scrutiny wasn't for me ... unless it was respectable folk wondering what was a nice girl like her doing with a face like this?
When my drink and her white wine came, she lifted her glass and asked, "Curious, Mr. Hammer?"
I tasted my tall rye with ginger, put it down, and lit a Lucky. "You caught me off base, baby, and let's keep it on a first-name basis, okay?"
"Certainly, Mike. Now back to your question."
"I didn't ask one, Shirley."
"You were about to. Let's see—how would you phrase it? Why is a working girl like me getting all this attention at such an exclusive bistro?"
"That's a good start."
Her smile poked fun at me a moment, then: "Don't let my occupation throw you. I happen to be independently wealthy."
"Yeah?"
She shrugged. "A small matter of a large inheritance. Ceramics is a hobby I've always enjoyed, and rather than be the playgirl type, I stay up to my elbows in clay and paint. I'm one of those many people who find the hobby quite therapeutic, and very rewarding."
"So is marriage, some would say."
Another shrug. "I tried it once. That's why I need the therapy. Incidentally, have you checked out my address?"
"Nope."
"No automatic background check?"
"Nope."
"Well, just in case you're telling the truth—it's a penthouse affair in the East Fifties."
I let some smoke out. "We're practically neighbors—except I live halfway downstairs with the rest of the riffraff."
"Hell to be poor, isn't it?"
"I get by on my character," I grinned.
"Which leads us into your next question," she said.
"Clue me."
But she waited until the waiter had brought our main course, and watched me try to fathom an odd taste—that's what I hate about French food, "sauces" that aren't anything but weird gravy.
Then she said, "I'm not sure exactly what your next question would be ... just that it would have something to do with Russell Frazer, Billy Blue, or Dr. Harrin."