added foolishly.
“Klein. Klein. Klein,” Larry shook his oval, high crowned head. “What am I gonna do with you? What’s it five, six years—”
“Seven,” I corrected, “but who’s counting?”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to you in seven years and you’re already busting my chops. But that’s you, Klein, isn’t it? You should have been one of King Arthur’s knights, a hero, someone to read about, someone from a time of honor. Tell me, Sir Knight, did such a time ever exist?”
“Sorry, Larry. I was outta line.” And I was.
“So,” he poured his lank into a black leather and tubular steel chair behind his desk and waved me into a similar model on my side, “what is it?”
“What is it?” I repeated dumbly.
“You need something. You want something. Something needs fixing. What? What? What?” Larry shot off rapid fire, his Adam’s apple skittering up and down his neck like a mouse caught in a garden hose.
“Here,” I handed him my rendition of the diamond heart.
“I’ve got a lot of pull in this town,” my ex-employer commented, still surveying my drawing, “but even I couldn’t get you into art school.”
“That’s not—” I started to explain.
“I know what you want, Sir Knight. What’s it made out of?”
“White gold and diamonds.”
“You want to know who handles this kinda piece at the exchange?” Larry smiled with that old chilling look of self-satisfaction.
“Who?” I found myself standing, hands on his desk.
“Can’t tell ya.” He looked disapprovingly at my hands until I withdrew them and sat back down. “But I know who can.”
“Who?” I asked again without unseating myself.
“Mojo,” was his reply.
“Mojo? Mojo who?”
“Don’t worry about Mojo who. Use my name and anyone who knows his tush from his tits will put you onto Mojo. Here,” he flipped one of his business cards at me. “Is that it?”
“One thing more.” I put forth weakly.
“That is . . .”
“Got an ex-detective for a friend these days. I wanna throw him a big bash, but I don’t know how to get in touch with his old buddies and partners. I figured you could get me a list without alerting anyone’s attention.”
“Name?”
“John Francis MacClough. Rhymes with cow,” I added out of habit.
“You’ll have your list tomorrow. I won’t be in, but I’ll leave it at the front desk.”
“Thank’s, Larry,” I was up, extending my hand for a good-bye shake.
Cassius wasn’t having any of it. I wouldn’t be exiting just yet. His cold gaze directed me back to my seat.
“Mary,” he pressed a button and spoke into a speaker box, “come in a minute. You,” Larry turned to me, “want anything?”
I shook him off. The longest ten seconds I’d ever experienced went by before Mary, a stern-faced woman of the middle years and the bulging middle, trotted her rasping pantyhose over to Larry’s desk.
“Call Billy Minter at One Police Plaza. Get me a copy of this guy’s file,” Mary plucked the paper with Johnny’s name on it out of her boss’s fingers. “I want to know who his partners were, the whole nine yards. And if Minter, that fat fuck, gives you a hard time, put him on the line.”
Mary was gone.
“I hear you’re an author these days,” Larry focused back on me.
“I write.”
“I’ve read all of it. It’s good.”
I nodded my thanks and surprise.
“Yeah, I read it. That’s why I thought you came here today. I thought maybe you needed a little help in getting an agent or a contract. But no.” Larry did a rare thing. He laughed, really. “That’s not you, Klein,” the laughing came to an abrupt end. “You wouldn’t come to me for yourself. Not you. Not Sir Knight.”
“Look Larry—”
“Don’t ‘look Larry’ me. Don’t you dare. I appreciated what you did for me as a kid, Klein. That’s why there was no fallout last time. I closed that account a long time ago,” Larry wiped his bony hands past one another twice. “I’m a
“Klein. Klein. Klein,” Larry shook his oval, high crowned head. “What am I gonna do with you? What’s it five, six years—”
“Seven,” I corrected, “but who’s counting?”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to you in seven years and you’re already busting my chops. But that’s you, Klein, isn’t it? You should have been one of King Arthur’s knights, a hero, someone to read about, someone from a time of honor. Tell me, Sir Knight, did such a time ever exist?”
“Sorry, Larry. I was outta line.” And I was.
“So,” he poured his lank into a black leather and tubular steel chair behind his desk and waved me into a similar model on my side, “what is it?”
“What is it?” I repeated dumbly.
“You need something. You want something. Something needs fixing. What? What? What?” Larry shot off rapid fire, his Adam’s apple skittering up and down his neck like a mouse caught in a garden hose.
“Here,” I handed him my rendition of the diamond heart.
“I’ve got a lot of pull in this town,” my ex-employer commented, still surveying my drawing, “but even I couldn’t get you into art school.”
“That’s not—” I started to explain.
“I know what you want, Sir Knight. What’s it made out of?”
“White gold and diamonds.”
“You want to know who handles this kinda piece at the exchange?” Larry smiled with that old chilling look of self-satisfaction.
“Who?” I found myself standing, hands on his desk.
“Can’t tell ya.” He looked disapprovingly at my hands until I withdrew them and sat back down. “But I know who can.”
“Who?” I asked again without unseating myself.
“Mojo,” was his reply.
“Mojo? Mojo who?”
“Don’t worry about Mojo who. Use my name and anyone who knows his tush from his tits will put you onto Mojo. Here,” he flipped one of his business cards at me. “Is that it?”
“One thing more.” I put forth weakly.
“That is . . .”
“Got an ex-detective for a friend these days. I wanna throw him a big bash, but I don’t know how to get in touch with his old buddies and partners. I figured you could get me a list without alerting anyone’s attention.”
“Name?”
“John Francis MacClough. Rhymes with cow,” I added out of habit.
“You’ll have your list tomorrow. I won’t be in, but I’ll leave it at the front desk.”
“Thank’s, Larry,” I was up, extending my hand for a good-bye shake.
Cassius wasn’t having any of it. I wouldn’t be exiting just yet. His cold gaze directed me back to my seat.
“Mary,” he pressed a button and spoke into a speaker box, “come in a minute. You,” Larry turned to me, “want anything?”
I shook him off. The longest ten seconds I’d ever experienced went by before Mary, a stern-faced woman of the middle years and the bulging middle, trotted her rasping pantyhose over to Larry’s desk.
“Call Billy Minter at One Police Plaza. Get me a copy of this guy’s file,” Mary plucked the paper with Johnny’s name on it out of her boss’s fingers. “I want to know who his partners were, the whole nine yards. And if Minter, that fat fuck, gives you a hard time, put him on the line.”
Mary was gone.
“I hear you’re an author these days,” Larry focused back on me.
“I write.”
“I’ve read all of it. It’s good.”
I nodded my thanks and surprise.
“Yeah, I read it. That’s why I thought you came here today. I thought maybe you needed a little help in getting an agent or a contract. But no.” Larry did a rare thing. He laughed, really. “That’s not you, Klein,” the laughing came to an abrupt end. “You wouldn’t come to me for yourself. Not you. Not Sir Knight.”
“Look Larry—”
“Don’t ‘look Larry’ me. Don’t you dare. I appreciated what you did for me as a kid, Klein. That’s why there was no fallout last time. I closed that account a long time ago,” Larry wiped his bony hands past one another twice. “I’m a
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