ring.
“Mac Smith here. I spoke with my wife, and she’ll make herself available to you any time tomorrow morning.” He listened, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Annabel, “Ten?”
“Ten is fine,” Annabel said.
Mac confirmed it with Eikenberg. “Yes, I’ll be here,” he said, “unless you prefer that I not be. All right. Fine. See you then.”
10
The Next Morning
Anthony A. Buffolino, private investigator, gasped as a sharp pain stabbed him in the back. He was on the floor of his office on G Street, between Fourteenth and Fifteenth. He grimaced and rolled onto his side. “Al!” he yelled.
The door between the office and reception area opened, and his third and most recent wife—one half of what was undoubtedly his most successful marriage—stood in it. “What’s the matter?”
“I pulled something,” he groaned, trying to arch his back into a less painful position. He wore a purple-and-white polyester sweat suit. Beneath him was a red-white-and-blue starred-and-striped plastic exercise mat.
The phone rang. Alicia disappeared into the receptionarea. “Al, for Christsake, I’m dyin’ here,” Buffolino moaned.
She returned. “You’d better take this, Tony. It sounds like a client.”
“Take it? I can’t even get up.” He painfully rolled himself into a sitting position.
Alicia came to him and helped him to his feet. “You’d better take it,” she repeated, supporting him with the aid of the desk. “It sounds like business. We haven’t had a new client for weeks.”
He slumped into his desk chair, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello.”
“Mr. Buffalino?”
“That’s right. Anthony Buff-OH-lino.”
“Mr. Buffalino, I was recommended to you by Walt Symington. I believe you handled a case for him last year.”
Tony flipped through his Rolodex, which was entirely mental. Symington? He had done work for somebody with that name. A matrimonial. The guy, a bank big shot, as Tony recalled, thought his wife was cheating on him and wanted proof. The husband had been right. There was an overabundance of proof. Tony delivered a surveillance log and photographs and collected his check. What Mr. Symington eventually did with the information was his own business. You never ask about those things.
“All right,” Buffolino said, adjusting himself in his chair. The pain had subsided. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure we should discuss this over the phone. Is your line secure?”
Buffolino frowned. Secure? What does he think this is, the CIA? “We can talk,” he said.
“I believe my wife is having an affair with my best friend. My former best friend.”
“Sorry to hear that. So why are you calling me?”
His blunt question caused the caller to pause before saying, “I would like you to prove my suspicion for me.”
Buffolino didn’t dare look up at Alicia, who now stood at the desk, hands pressed into it. “Sorry,” Tony said, “but Buffolino and Associates don’t do matrimonials.”
The responses from both ends—through the phone and on the other side of the desk—were instantaneous.
“T-o-n-y!” Alicia hissed.
“But Walt told me you did that sort of thing and were very good at it.”
“Look, thanks for calling, but we don’t do matrimonial cases. Me and my staff strictly do corporate security and espionage, government assignments. Minimum fee is three hundred thousand.” He hung up.
“What is
wrong
with you?” Alicia shouted. “We’re behind on the rent again, the bills are piling up at home, and—”
Buffolino waved her off. “I told you, Alicia, doing matrimonials is lowlife. I told you that if we’re gonna make a score here in D.C., we have to take the high road. Class. Image. Be politically correct, I think they call it. That’s where it’s at.”
She slapped her hands against her sides. “Some high road,” she said. “Tell that to the phone company when they yank the phones—Mr. Class.” She stomped from the
“Mac Smith here. I spoke with my wife, and she’ll make herself available to you any time tomorrow morning.” He listened, placed his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Annabel, “Ten?”
“Ten is fine,” Annabel said.
Mac confirmed it with Eikenberg. “Yes, I’ll be here,” he said, “unless you prefer that I not be. All right. Fine. See you then.”
10
The Next Morning
Anthony A. Buffolino, private investigator, gasped as a sharp pain stabbed him in the back. He was on the floor of his office on G Street, between Fourteenth and Fifteenth. He grimaced and rolled onto his side. “Al!” he yelled.
The door between the office and reception area opened, and his third and most recent wife—one half of what was undoubtedly his most successful marriage—stood in it. “What’s the matter?”
“I pulled something,” he groaned, trying to arch his back into a less painful position. He wore a purple-and-white polyester sweat suit. Beneath him was a red-white-and-blue starred-and-striped plastic exercise mat.
The phone rang. Alicia disappeared into the receptionarea. “Al, for Christsake, I’m dyin’ here,” Buffolino moaned.
She returned. “You’d better take this, Tony. It sounds like a client.”
“Take it? I can’t even get up.” He painfully rolled himself into a sitting position.
Alicia came to him and helped him to his feet. “You’d better take it,” she repeated, supporting him with the aid of the desk. “It sounds like business. We haven’t had a new client for weeks.”
He slumped into his desk chair, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello.”
“Mr. Buffalino?”
“That’s right. Anthony Buff-OH-lino.”
“Mr. Buffalino, I was recommended to you by Walt Symington. I believe you handled a case for him last year.”
Tony flipped through his Rolodex, which was entirely mental. Symington? He had done work for somebody with that name. A matrimonial. The guy, a bank big shot, as Tony recalled, thought his wife was cheating on him and wanted proof. The husband had been right. There was an overabundance of proof. Tony delivered a surveillance log and photographs and collected his check. What Mr. Symington eventually did with the information was his own business. You never ask about those things.
“All right,” Buffolino said, adjusting himself in his chair. The pain had subsided. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure we should discuss this over the phone. Is your line secure?”
Buffolino frowned. Secure? What does he think this is, the CIA? “We can talk,” he said.
“I believe my wife is having an affair with my best friend. My former best friend.”
“Sorry to hear that. So why are you calling me?”
His blunt question caused the caller to pause before saying, “I would like you to prove my suspicion for me.”
Buffolino didn’t dare look up at Alicia, who now stood at the desk, hands pressed into it. “Sorry,” Tony said, “but Buffolino and Associates don’t do matrimonials.”
The responses from both ends—through the phone and on the other side of the desk—were instantaneous.
“T-o-n-y!” Alicia hissed.
“But Walt told me you did that sort of thing and were very good at it.”
“Look, thanks for calling, but we don’t do matrimonial cases. Me and my staff strictly do corporate security and espionage, government assignments. Minimum fee is three hundred thousand.” He hung up.
“What is
wrong
with you?” Alicia shouted. “We’re behind on the rent again, the bills are piling up at home, and—”
Buffolino waved her off. “I told you, Alicia, doing matrimonials is lowlife. I told you that if we’re gonna make a score here in D.C., we have to take the high road. Class. Image. Be politically correct, I think they call it. That’s where it’s at.”
She slapped her hands against her sides. “Some high road,” she said. “Tell that to the phone company when they yank the phones—Mr. Class.” She stomped from the
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