Angel Eyes by Loren D. Estleman Page A

implacements atop the Ford River Rouge plant or Walter Reuther getting kicked down the steps of the Miller Road overpass. Such things would mean no more to them than the casualty count of the Trojan War. They were part of the new wave of hybrid union employees who perspired in bed with blond file clerks and not over vats of glowing molten steel, dined from china at martini lunches rather than from black tin boxes, and thought a device was something a two-hundred-dollar hooker showed when she leaned down to pick up her napkin. I had him pegged, but I still couldn’t place him.
    When the tan eyes rose at last to meet mine I bet myself ten dollars what he was going to say next and won.
    “An engagement’s a serious step. Can’t we just go on dating for a while?”
    I gave him the deadpan. “I guess you fellows don’t get much humor up here.”
    He didn’t like that only half as much as he didn’t like not getting a laugh out of the others. “I don’t get it,” he snarled. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
    He could have been legitimate. He could have been acting. I didn’t care either way. “Take it in to Mr. Montana. He’ll know.”
    “I’m not sure I like a shamus coming up here and telling me what I should do. As a matter of fact, I’m sure I don’t.”
    “Call it a request.”
    “How do I know you’re who you claim you are? Assassins have tried to crack our security before. Let’s see some identification.”
    “I’m going for my wallet,” I told the men beside me, and reached in to withdraw it with two fingers. The secretary gave the photostat license and sheriff’s shield the same attention he’d given the ring. I put away the wallet.
    “I thought you said you weren’t with the police.”
    “I used to be a process server. The badge is honorary. It’s saved me a beating or two.”
    “Times change.” He stood there tapping the box with his index finger, looking every inch the gangster’s right-hand man from The Big Heat, then remembered his cigarette and took a last drag before flipping it into a steel dingus attached to the wall. “Wait here,” he said, exhaling smoke. A meaningful glance at the duo, and he went through the opening at his back.
    “What else?” I was talking to the wall.

7
    I MADE A COUPLE of attempts to strike up a conversation with the guards, but they weren’t having any of it. It was getting darker outside. It wouldn’t be long now.
    The secretary returned, looking cool and unprovoked. I looked for the ring. He didn’t have it, a good sign.
    “I’m stunned,” he said. “He’ll see you.”
    I took a step and ran into his palm. His tan eyes snapped beyond my shoulder, and the bodyguard with the glasses flicked up my elbows with thumbs like air jets and frisked me from chest to ankles in less time than it takes to tell it. My hat was lifted from my head, then replaced. He stepped away, shaking his head.
    “You understand the necessity for precautions,” explained the secretary gravely as he stepped aside to let me pass. His manners had improved considerably since our first encounter. I had won an audience with Mr. Montana and was thus entitled to such treatment as was reserved for visiting royalty. But he didn’t have to like it.
    “We’re both working stiffs.” I excavated my pack of Winstons and offered him one.
    He accepted the cigarette and broke it in one hand. His eyes remained on mine as he cast the mangled paper and tobacco into the steel ashtray.
    “If that’s the way you want it.” I motioned to him to lead the way.
    We followed the curve of the building for forty feet, past a dozen or so partitioned offices, each with its own desk and window overlooking the city and the Detroit River with Windsor on the other side. It reminded me vaguely of the set from an executive comedy of the fifties, in which a chain of cute secretaries squeak, “Good morning, Mr. Whoozis,” as the gruff businessman in homburg and carrying the Wall Street