Stone Rain by Linwood Barclay Page B

sort of tough guy. You know, scare me into backing off my story.”
    I laughed nervously. “If there’s anything I’m not, it’s a tough guy.”
    “But you do want me to back off the story, right?” He leaned a little closer across the table. “That’s why you’re here.”
    “No, no,” I protested as two porcelain mugs of coffee were placed in front of us. “Of course not.” I looked around, checking the front door of Pluto’s. “Where the hell is she?” I glanced at my watch. Trixie was seven minutes late. Why was she seven minutes late to her own meeting?
    “So what’s your connection to Ms. Snelling, then?” Benson asked. “You a relative? She a friend? Or,” and he paused a moment here, “are you a client?”
    I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “No, gosh no, we’re just, we used to be, this was a couple of years ago, we were neighbors. We—that’s me and the family—lived a couple of doors down, but we’ve moved back downtown since then. You might have heard about what happened, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.”
    “No,” said Benson. “I only got to the
Suburban
a year ago. Came here from Buffalo.”
    “Oh yeah, wings,” I said. “Love those wings.”
    Martin Benson stared, thrilled that his former home was reduced to an appetizer.
    He said, “You do know what she does for a living.”
    I hesitated. “What is it you think she does for a living?”
    “I think she runs a sex business. I think she’s a hooker, a very high-end hooker that caters to very specific tastes.”
    “I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”
    “Then why did you nearly choke on your coffee when I asked whether you were one of her clients?”
    “Look, I, I’m pretty sure Ms. Snelling—where the hell is she, anyway?—is not a prostitute. She does not have sexual relations with her customers.”
    “Where have I heard that phrase before?” Benson asked. “When I asked whether you were a relative or a friend or a client, I forgot one. Are you her pimp?”
    I guess my jaw dropped, and I stared at him in openmouthed astonishment for a moment, before I had the sense to close it. Twice I started to say something, and each time, a chuckle got in the way. “You have no idea,” I said, “how totally ridiculous that comment is.”
    “Is it? Then you tell me, why are you here?”
    “First of all, let’s go back to this hooker thing. Far as I know, Trixie—Ms. Snelling—does not offer sexual services. But you know what, you’d be better asking her about that yourself once she gets here.”
    The waitress had reappeared, notepad at the ready. “You gentlemen ready to order?” she asked.
    “We’re still waiting for someone,” I said. She nodded and withdrew.
    Now Benson was looking at his own watch. “Pretty late.”
    “I’m sure she’ll be along any—” The cell phone in my jacket pocket rang and vibrated. “Hang on,” I said, taking out the phone and flipping it open. “Hello?”
    “How’s it going?” Trixie asked.
    “Where the hell are you?” I said. Benson’s eyebrows went up. “We’re here, in Pluto’s, waiting.”
    “Yeah, I know. I watched you go in. I’m parked up the street, reading your newspaper.”
    I couldn’t stop myself from looking out the window, which, of course, tipped Benson off to do the same.
    “How long have you been there?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, half hour maybe. Have you steered him off this thing yet?”
    “Trixie, we were sort of waiting for you.”
    “I won’t be able to make it,” she said. “You know what that fat fucker will do, soon as I walk in or sit down, he’s going to take my picture. Why do you think he showed up? He wants a nice shot to run with his story.”
    I slid out of the booth, held up an index finger to Benson to indicate I’d be back in one minute, and moved a few booths away before I continued my conversation.
    “He thinks I’m your fucking pimp,” I said.
    Trixie laughed. “Now that’s