Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 16 - Poison Blonde by Loren D. Estleman Page B
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Ads: Link
wastebasket. It wasn’t even good enough to drive around with anymore. Life doesn’t work out like a crossword puzzle. If it did, it wouldn’t have any place in it for angle-bangers like me. But it so happened I knew someone I could call in St. Paul, if Millennium Confidential Services hadn’t gotten to him first.
Sometimes life does work out like a crossword puzzle. My hand was on the telephone when it rang, and it was Lester Ziegler at Millennium. He’d oiled the rollers in his deep voice, and now he sounded like the man who describes toaster ovens on game shows.
“Nothing yet,” he said, “but my people have a few more places to call. If this Rubio woman drove and paid cash, she could use whatever name she liked. Only these days people notice when you pay cash.”
“You called to report nothing?”
“Not exactly. I ran your name through TRW after we spoke. They never heard of you. I’ve never come across that before. If I didn’t think it was a computer glitch, I’d swear you had no credit rating at all.”
“Go ahead and swear. I haven’t.”
“That’s impossible. Everyone has a rating, even deadbeats. It’s like you don’t exist.”
“I’ve been told that.”
He got tired of waiting for me to tack something onto the end. “I checked with your bonding company. You’re covered for up to a million, but that’s strictly boilerplate and it only protects your clients in case you take their retainer to Brazil. This isn’t a cash-and-carry business. We need a secured method of payment.”
“We aren’t in the same business, Mr. Ziegler. You’re Big Oil and I’m a pump jockey. I don’t owe anybody and nobody owes me. That makes me a nonperson where the credit companies are concerned, but from where I sit it means I haven’t made any enemies. Not the kind they’d recognize as such, anyway.”
“You could send us a check.”
“Will you keep your people on the case while they’re waiting for it?”
“I can’t do that. Our plate is full of paying customers. I only got this started because you sounded professional over the telephone and I was sure you would have some kind of credit history and we could decide whether to proceed depending upon what it was. This agency belongs to a corporation. The board wouldn’t enjoy explaining to the stockholders why it accepted a phantom for a client.” Something tapped a beat on his end—a pencil or more likely a keyboard. “I’ll waive the standard ten-day waiting period while the check clears. Get it in the mail today and we’ll be back on the case day after tomorrow.”
I glanced at the bank calendar on the wall. I knew what the date was day after tomorrow. I just liked to look at the picture of Tahquamenon Falls. The attraction hadn’t changed in more than a century. No new owners had acquired it and anyone who wanted to could go up and look at it for free. He didn’t need a credit rating. “The case blows up in five days, Mr. Ziegler. I’m not going to sit on my hands for two of them waiting for your people to make half a dozen calls I could make myself if I knew the names of their contacts.”
“Well, the contacts are what you buy.” He’d lost interest. “I hope for your sake your luck holds, Walker. It’s the only thing keeping you afloat.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t expect a comfortable buyout package?” But I was barking down a dead line.
I replaced the receiver carefully, then rechecked the number on my desk directory and dialed. A voice that sounded like a dump truck downshifting through gravel answered on the third ring.
“Twin Cities Detective Agency, Corcoran.”
“Corky, this is Amos Walker in Detroit. How’s every little thing in St. Paul?”
“St. Paul-Minneapolis,” he corrected automatically. “We’re up to our tits in snow and there’s more coming from Alberta. I had to get a jump this morning to start my electric razor. Hope you’re the same.” His tone had changed to one of cordial
Sometimes life does work out like a crossword puzzle. My hand was on the telephone when it rang, and it was Lester Ziegler at Millennium. He’d oiled the rollers in his deep voice, and now he sounded like the man who describes toaster ovens on game shows.
“Nothing yet,” he said, “but my people have a few more places to call. If this Rubio woman drove and paid cash, she could use whatever name she liked. Only these days people notice when you pay cash.”
“You called to report nothing?”
“Not exactly. I ran your name through TRW after we spoke. They never heard of you. I’ve never come across that before. If I didn’t think it was a computer glitch, I’d swear you had no credit rating at all.”
“Go ahead and swear. I haven’t.”
“That’s impossible. Everyone has a rating, even deadbeats. It’s like you don’t exist.”
“I’ve been told that.”
He got tired of waiting for me to tack something onto the end. “I checked with your bonding company. You’re covered for up to a million, but that’s strictly boilerplate and it only protects your clients in case you take their retainer to Brazil. This isn’t a cash-and-carry business. We need a secured method of payment.”
“We aren’t in the same business, Mr. Ziegler. You’re Big Oil and I’m a pump jockey. I don’t owe anybody and nobody owes me. That makes me a nonperson where the credit companies are concerned, but from where I sit it means I haven’t made any enemies. Not the kind they’d recognize as such, anyway.”
“You could send us a check.”
“Will you keep your people on the case while they’re waiting for it?”
“I can’t do that. Our plate is full of paying customers. I only got this started because you sounded professional over the telephone and I was sure you would have some kind of credit history and we could decide whether to proceed depending upon what it was. This agency belongs to a corporation. The board wouldn’t enjoy explaining to the stockholders why it accepted a phantom for a client.” Something tapped a beat on his end—a pencil or more likely a keyboard. “I’ll waive the standard ten-day waiting period while the check clears. Get it in the mail today and we’ll be back on the case day after tomorrow.”
I glanced at the bank calendar on the wall. I knew what the date was day after tomorrow. I just liked to look at the picture of Tahquamenon Falls. The attraction hadn’t changed in more than a century. No new owners had acquired it and anyone who wanted to could go up and look at it for free. He didn’t need a credit rating. “The case blows up in five days, Mr. Ziegler. I’m not going to sit on my hands for two of them waiting for your people to make half a dozen calls I could make myself if I knew the names of their contacts.”
“Well, the contacts are what you buy.” He’d lost interest. “I hope for your sake your luck holds, Walker. It’s the only thing keeping you afloat.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t expect a comfortable buyout package?” But I was barking down a dead line.
I replaced the receiver carefully, then rechecked the number on my desk directory and dialed. A voice that sounded like a dump truck downshifting through gravel answered on the third ring.
“Twin Cities Detective Agency, Corcoran.”
“Corky, this is Amos Walker in Detroit. How’s every little thing in St. Paul?”
“St. Paul-Minneapolis,” he corrected automatically. “We’re up to our tits in snow and there’s more coming from Alberta. I had to get a jump this morning to start my electric razor. Hope you’re the same.” His tone had changed to one of cordial
Similar Books
