Thai Horse by William Diehl Page B

Fifty-sixth, Sloan crossed the street and picked up his pace. He passed Stenhauser, waited until the short man neared Bill’s, and entered it a few seconds ahead of him, killing time until Stenhauser had hung up his coat and found a place at the bar. Sloan sat down next to him. Stenhauser ignored him, reading a copy of Art World while the bartender concocted a perfect martini. He put it in front of Stenhauser, then turned to Sloan. ‘ What’ll it be?’
    ‘A light draft,’ Sloan said. He looked over at Stenhauser. ‘You prefer Bombay gin over Beefeater’s, I see,’ he said for starters.
    Stenhauser, staring at him from under his heavy lids, appeared somewhat annoyed. ‘It’s the bartender’s option,’ he said in a nasal voice that was alm o st a whine. ‘Frankly, I doubt that I could tell the difference between the two.’
    ‘But you do prefer a rather wet martini.’
    ‘Let’s just say I don’t like straight gin,’ Stenhauser said absently while leafing through his magazine.
    ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you ’ re interested in art,’ Sloan persisted.
    Stenhauser tapped the magazine cover with a nervous finger.
    ‘Business and pleasure,’ he said curtly.
    ‘No kidding,’ Sloan said. ‘What’s your line?’
    ‘My line, if you want to call it that, is insurance.’
    ‘Life insurance, corporate —‘
    ‘Actually I’m a claims adjuster,’ Stenhauser said, turning his attention back to the magazine
    ‘No kidding,’ Sloan said enthusiastically. ‘How does that tie in with the art world?’
    The little man placed the magazine back on the bar and sighed. ‘I’m a specialist,’ he said. ‘I specialize in recovering stolen art works.’
    ‘Hey, that sounds interesting. And profitable, right?’ He winked at Stenhauser.
    ‘Well, I’m not ready to retire yet, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘Not yet,’ Sloan said, taking a sip of beer and not looking at him.
    Stenhauser’s eyes narrowed. The man was beginning to annoy him. It was almost as if he were prying. Stenhauser studied him. His face was weathered and leathery, he had a small scar under his right eye, his body was square, like a box, and muscular. His charcoal-black hair was clipped in a severe crew cut, and his sport coat seemed almost too tight. An outdoor man, Stenhauser figured. A hunter rather than a fisherman. He had the burly look of a hunter; fishermen were more aesthetic. Probably did weight- lifting every day. A big sport fan and a beer drinker. Not too bright, thought Stenhauser.
    ‘And what’s your business, Mr. uh . . .‘ Stenhauser began.
    ‘Sloan. Harry Sloan. I’m a snoop.’
    ‘A detective?’
    ‘No, just a snoop,’ Sloan said, drawing him in, slowly weaving a shimmery web for his fly.
    Stenhauser chuckled. ‘That’s good. That’s very funny,’ he said. ‘That’s what gossip magazines are all about, right? I suppose we’re all a bit nosy.’
    Sloan leaned over toward Stenhauser and said, very confidentially, ‘Yeah, but nothing like I am. I stop’ — he held two fingers a quarter of an inch apart — ‘about that far short of voyeurism.’
    Stenhauser looked surprised. ‘Well most people wouldn’t admit it,’ he said, taking another sip of his martini.
    ‘I like to study people,’ said Sloan. ‘I feel I’m a very good judge of character.’
    ‘Is that right.’
    ‘Take you, for instance. I’ll bet you’re a very precise man.’
    ‘Precise, huh.’ Stenhauser thought about that for a few moments. ‘I suppose that’s true. It pays to be precise in my business.’
    ‘I’m sure it does. Can’t afford a slipup.’ Sloan leaned closer to him. ‘Do you deal with the criminal element?’ he asked, adding more sheen to the well ,.
    ‘That’s what I do,’ the little man said proudly. ‘I realise I don’t look very imposing, but I speak their language. I can be very tough when need be.’
    ‘I can tell,’ Sloan said.
    ‘You can, huh?’
    ‘Absolutely. I’ll bet you’re one h