Detective

Chapter 1

"I want to kill someone."

"Who doesn't. "

"No. I mean it. I really want to kill someone."

"Everyone wants to kill someone. It's no big deal. I, myself, have a long list, usually
headed by my wife."

"You don't understand. I'm going to do it,"

For the first time, I gave him my full attention. I looked him over and tried to recall his
name. I'm terrible with names. He was a short, plump man, somewhat in his mid-forties, with a
bald head ringed with black, greasy curls, and a pudgy face moist with perspiration, which didn't
necessarily indicate nervousness on his part since it was mid-July and I have no air-conditioning in
the office. I was perspiring freely too, and I wasn't a bit nervous, at least not until I realized this
unattractive man really was contemplating murder.

"That," I said, "is different."

He leaned in eagerly. "Then you'll help me?"

"No."

"I'll pay you."

"No."

"I'll pay you well."

"No."

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He didn't seem to know
what to say next. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. The
handkerchief was soaked already, and the result was negligible. It didn't matter. He was just
buying time. I waited.

"Look," he said. I think I got off on the wrong foot here, I'm a little upset, as you can
see. I'm in terrible trouble. I need your help. I'll give you $10,000."

"No."

He stared at me. Just a trace of annoyance crept into his voice. "How much do you want?"

"That's not the point. You want me to help you kill someone. I'm not going to do that."

"Well, that's a relief."

"But I still need your help." He leaned in ingratiatingly, and his name almost came to me.
Morris. Morris something. Something Jewish.

I held up my hand. "All right. Hold it. You're telling me you're going to commit a crime.
Whether you want me to do it or not, you're getting me in a lot of trouble. I'm not a lawyer, I'm
a private detective. Anything you tell me is not a confidential communication. What you are
doing is making me an accessory before the fact to a crime, in fact a capital crime, to wit, Murder
One, a cold-blooded, premeditated killing."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You--"

"But you haven't heard my story--"

"I don't want to hear your story. I don't want to know anything about this."

"But you don't understand. I'm going crazy. I have to talk to someone."

"Why me?"

"I was going by. I saw your sign."

I groaned. My sign. I had listed myself as a private detective on the call board in the lobby
because I needed to get mail. It never occurred to me someone would walk in off the street.

I hesitated, thinking about the sign, and he pounced. "Please. At least just listen to me.
I've got to talk to someone."

I sighed. All right, if I took the job, I had to accept the responsibilities. "O.K.," I said.
"But no names."

"What?"

"Just give me the general picture. No names, no addresses. I don't want to know the
names of anyone involved."

As I said that, the name Alberg rang a bell. Morris Alberg. "Can you do that, Mr.
Alberg?"

"Albrect," he corrected. I began to doubt the "Morris." "Yeah, yeah, sure."

"O.K.," I said, "why do you want to kill this guy?"

I didn't care. Nothing he had to say would change my mind. Maybe I'm from the old
school, but as far as I'm concerned, killing people is a no-no. I am not a violent person by nature.
I do not like violent people. I do not like violence. By and large, I don't like the detective business
very much, and I don't like most of the people I come in contact with in the course of my work. I
didn't like Morris Alberg, or Albrect, or whatever, and I could think of no conceivable reason
why I should be concerned in the least with his reason for wanting to kill someone. I had asked
the question simply as a matter of form, or politeness, if you will, but I knew that there was
nothing he could say that would make me the least bit interested in his case.

I was wrong. There was one right answer, and Albrect had it.

"Because he's trying to kill me first."

I got up, went and sat behind my desk, and took out a pad of paper and a pencil. I had no real intention of taking notes. That was just my way of buying time. I composed myself, resigned myself to the situation, and raised my eyes to meet those of my potential client.

I sighed. "All right. Tell me all about it."

Now that he had my attention, Albrect didn't seem to know how to begin. He fidgeted. "I'm in trouble," he said.

"So you said."

He lowered his eyes. "I uh, you gotta understand. I did some things."

He hesitated and looked at me for encouragement. I wasn't about to give him any.

"It's hard to talk about," he said.

"So don't," I told him.

"What?" he asked, startled.

"I didn't ask you to come here. I didn't ask you to tell your story. You forced it on me. If you don't want to tell it, that's fine with me. I'm not going to drag it out of you. You want to talk, talk--otherwise get the hell out of here. I've got work to do."

His face purpled and for a moment I thought he was going to punch me in the nose. Then he exhaled and collapsed like a paper bag.

"O.K.," he said. "O.K., you're right, let me tell you. It all started when I met--"

I held up my hand. "No names."

"How the hell am I going to tell it if I don't mention any names?"

"Just leave out the names. Don't tell me you met so-and-so, just tell me you met a guy."

"That's going to be confusing."

"Why?"

"Because there's a lot of different guys."

"O.K., so give him a name."

"What do you mean?"

"Give him a name. Call him something. Just so long as it's not his real name."

"Call him something?"

"Yeah."

"What'll I call him?"

"Anything you want."

"O.K., I'll call him--" He broke off. "This isn't going to work."

"Why not?"

"I'm not going to remember who is who."

"Sure you are. This is the first guy you're talking about. Just give him a name you'll remember."

"I don't understand."

"Just call him something you can't forget."

"Like what?"

"Dumbo."

"What?"

"Dumbo. You know. Walt Disney. The flying elephant."

"What are you doing, kidding around?"

"No, I'm not kidding around. I'm trying to get your story out of you, and it doesn't look like it's going to be easy. I said call the guy "Dumbo" because you have to refer to him and I know it's a name you won't forget. You gonna forget the name "Dumbo?" That gonna give you any problems?"

"No."

"Good. Now tell me what Dumbo said."

He looked at me as if trying to decide if I were serious. He must have decided I was.

"O.K. It all started when I met this guy, uh, Dumbo." He hesitated over the name as if trying it. It must have bee O.K., because he plunged right ahead. "He works at the company I work for. I didn't know him very well-- that is, I knew who he was, but I didn't know him socially, just as a co-worker, you know? But one day he mentioned that he was going to this poker game, and I have a weakness for poker, so I told him I was interested, and one thing led to another, and he invited me to go along. It was a friendly neighborhood game, low stakes, dollar-two, high low game, you know what I mean."

"Only too well," I told him, remembering what my wife had said not a week before when I'd come home from a friendly, dollar-two game a hundred and forty five bucks in the hole.

"Well, this guy, Dumbo, was a regular at the game, and I started playing there pretty regular too, so I got to know him pretty well and we got to talking and he told me this game was O.K., but if I really wanted some action there was this place he knew about that was the place to be,' as he called it."

"A casino?"

"Yeah."

"Here in the city?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know it's illegal, but, hell, the lottery's legal, there's OTB. If you got to Atlantic City gambling's legal, but who's got the time to go--"

I stopped him. "Hey, I'm not your mother. I'm not shocked out of my mind that you've been gambling illegally in New York City. Stop trying to justify yourself and tell me what happened."

"Oh. Well, I went to this place. It's a little place in SoHo called--"

"Hold it." I held up my hand."

"O.K. Right. You don't want to know. So I went down to--" He broke off. "What should I call it?"

"Are there more than one?"

"No."

Then why not call it the gambling joint?"

"Right. Anyway, I went to the gambling joint, and you know how it is."

"I don't. Why don't you tell me."

"Well, the first few times I won. Not big, but I won. Maybe fifty, or a hundred. Once over three hundred."

"And then?"

"Then I started to lose. The more I bet, the more I lost, and the more I lost, the more I bet."

"What were you playing?"

"Roulette."

"You think the wheel was rigged?"

"Sure it was."

"Then why'd you keep playing?"

"Because-- I didn't-- I mean, I did, but-- it's really hard to explain. You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah. I would. So what happened?"

"Well, I got in over my head. See, some nights, when I got cleaned out, since I was sort of a regular there, Mr.--" He broke off. "The guy who ran the place," he explained.

"Bambi," I said.

"Right," he said. "Anyway, since I was a regular there, Bambi would give me credit. You know, he took my marker."

"Yeah."

"And, of course, having a credit line made it easier to bet higher. I mean, if I dropped five or six hundred in the course of an evening, I could always put my marker down and go double-or-nothing on red or black."

"There was no limit?"

"Technically, there was a house limit of one grand on any single bet."

"You say technically?"

Yeah. In a special case, you could go over that."

"You have any special cases?"

"A few."

"Ever win one?"

No."

"Go on."

"Anyway, as I said, I got in way over my head and then Mr., uh, Bambi, called in the marker."

"For how much?"

Despite the fact I had assured him I was not his mother, he could not quite bring himself to meet my eyes.

"Fifty six grand."

I didn't tell him he was a bad boy or threaten to cut off his allowance. "So what did you do?"

"What could I do," he said, looking at me ingratiatingly. "I don't have that kind of money, and I didn't know where to get it.."

"What do you do for a living?" I asked him.

"O.K. to mention names?" he said, hopefully.

"Unless it's involved in the case."

"Oh."

"Is it?"

"Only indirectly," he said. "So what shall I call it?"

"How about the firm I work for'?" I suggested with just a trace of irony. "All right," I went on. "You ran up some gambling debts. You embezzled money from the firm you work for to cover them. Then you got faced with an audit. You were afraid your embezzlement would be discovered. You needed money fast. Then what?"

He stared at me. "How do you know all that?"

"What else?" I told him. "So what did you do?"

"Well, I told, uh, Dumbo, and he happened to know a loan shark who was willing to cover the whole amount."

"At a modest interest, no doubt."

"Yeah. It was backbreaking, but what could I do? It bought me time. I covered the shortage, and then I started to work paying off the loan."

"Which you couldn't do?"

"No, I was handling it."

"Then what went wrong?"

"Well, one day I went to pay off this guy and he told me I don't owe him any more."

"What?"

"Yeah. He says some guy bought out my loan."

"You're kidding."

No. He says he owed the guy money, so the guy took my marker."

"What guy?"

"Bambi."

"Oh. I see."

"Yeah. It turns out this loan shark was pretty good friends with Bambi."

"What a surprise."

"What? Oh," he smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Yeah. Well, anyway, Bambi told me he was sorry about the whole thing. It was just a coincidence. The guy owed him money and, since he couldn't pay, he gave him my marker."

"And you believed him?"

"No. Particularly when he told me something else. He said he knew I was in trouble and was going to have a hard time paying off the loan, but maybe he could help me."

"How?"

"Well, it turns out he knew this other guy--" he looked at me.

"Pluto," I told him.

"Who?"

"Mickey Mouse's dog."

"Right. Pluto. It turned out Pluto had some work he needed done and it would pay well and it was my chance to get out of the hole."

"What was the work?"

"I'm coming to that."

"Today, I hope."

"O.K., O.K. Well, you see, one of the things about my job is that I have to travel a lot. And I hate to fly. I'm afraid of flying, to tell you the truth. So I do a lot of driving. At least on the East coast. California, I have to fly, but I hate it. Anywhere else, I drive. Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, I drive it."

"So?"

"Well, it happens that one of the largest accounts I handle is the Whitney Corporation in Miami."

"I think I get the picture."

"Yeah. Well, it turns out Pluto had some business in Miami. He needed something delivered and something picked up."

"No kidding."

"So they made me this proposition."

"Who?"

"Bambi and Pluto."

"Both of them together?"

"Yeah. Well, first just Bambi. Then he took me to meet Pluto."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why'?"

"If Bambi was the go-between and Pluto was the big cheese, why would he want to meet you personally? Why would he want you to know who he was?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he wanted to approve me personally before he was willing to let me go. Or maybe he wanted to give it to me himself, so if anything went wrong I'd be the only one to blame. At any rate, he was the one who gave it to me."

"Gave what to you?"

"The suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

"Yeah. The one I was to take to Miami."

"I see. And what were you supposed to do with it?"

"I was to take it to this address in Miami and give it to someone."

"Floridian #1."

"Huh?"

"The guy you gave it to. Floridian #1."

"O.K. You keeping track of all this?"

"It was getting a little complicated. I wrote. "Dumbo, "Bambi," "Pluto," and "Floridian #1" on the pad of paper. After "Dumbo," I wrote, "gambling contact from firm." After "Bambi," I wrote, "casino owner." After "Pluto," I wrote "N.Y. drug connection." After "Floridian #1," I wrote "Miami drug connection."

"Go on," I said.

"Well, I took the suitcase out there like they told me and me Floridian--Jesus, what a word--Floridian #1."

"And gave him the suitcase."

"No, he wouldn't take the suitcase. He made me hold onto it all the time. He drove me to a private house somewhere out of town. He took me inside and left me alone in a room. After a little while another guy came in."

"Floridian #2."

"Uh huh, and you don't have to worry about my telling you his name, because I never knew it."

"So what happened?"

"He took the suitcase, told me to wait there, and left the room. About five minutes later he

came back to me and told me to return it."

"And then?"

"Then he left me alone again. About five minutes later the first guy, uh, Floridian #1, came back, drove me back to where he picked me up, and let me off."

"So?"

"I drove back to New York and delivered the suitcase."

"To whom?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember who you gave the suitcase to?"

"No, I don't remember which damn Disney name you gave him. I told you I wouldn't be able to keep them straight."

"You gave the suitcase back to the guy who gave it to you in the first place?"

"No. To the other guy."

"You gave the suitcase to the casino owner, the one we designated as Bambi."

"That's right."

"And then what happened?"

"He paid me $10,000."

"In cash?"

"No. It was a squidge. He just knocked it off my debt."

"So you reduced your debt by ten grand. That still left you forty-six grand in the hole."

"Right. So I did it again."

"How many times?"

"Six in all."

"So that must have wiped out your debt."

"Well, no, see, because in the meantime I was still gambling."

I sighed. "All right, so you got involved in an illegal operation. But so far, I can't see any reason why anyone would want to kill you, with the possible exception of me."

I'm coming to that. I'm coming to that."

"Great. Come to it."

"Well, as I said, I made several trips for these guys and I still hadn't paid off my gambling debt. And it was getting to me, you know. I mean it seemed like there was no way out. So I had to do something."

"I should hope so."

"What?"

"Go on."

"Well, I never knew what was in the suitcase. It was always locked. Of course, I suspected, but I never knew for sure. Anyway, the last time I got the suitcase back from the guy--Floridian #2, I think you called him--I decided to find out. I still had one more day in Miami. So I hunted up a locksmith and told him I'd lost the key to my suitcase."

"Did he believe you?"

"I don't know. I think he did at first, but then when he got the lock open I didn't want to open the suitcase while he was still in the room, and when he saw I wasn't going to open the suitcase, he charged me a bigger fee than he'd quoted me originally."

"Great. Then what?"

"Well, after I got rid of him I opened the suitcase and guess what was in it?"

"Ten kilos of cocaine?"

"Twenty."

"You knew it was coke?"

"I figured it was. To tell the truth, I do a little coke now and then. You know, it's helpful with the ladies."

I tried to envisions Albrect as a sly dog entertaining the ladies. I couldn't do it. "Go on."

"Well, I tried a little, and sure enough, it was coke. And good shit, too."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I figured this was my chance. AS I said, I knew a little bit about coke, so I knew what to do. The stuff was about a fifty-fifty mixture of rocks and powder, so I knew I could cut it. So I got some milk sugar and I cut myself some coke."

"How much?"

"I took four ounces out of each kilo."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah. So there I was with five pounds of really dynamite coke. I locked up the suitcase and made my delivery to wh\at's-his-face, to Bambi. I was scared to death. I waited to see it they'd find out, if anybody would notice that anything was wrong. But they didn't. I went to the casino, same as always. I saw the guys there, and no one acted like anything was wrong. In fact, Bambi asked me when was the next time I was scheduled to go to Miami."

"He didn't notice you were stoned out of your mind?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I did a little coke, but he wouldn't notice that. I always did a little coke when I gambled. In fact what's-his-name, Dumbo, used to supply it for me."

"So what went wrong?"

"Well, I had to move the stuff. I mean, where the hell are you going to get rid of five pounds of coke? I sure couldn't approach anyone remotely connected with any of these guys. So I

started looking for a buyer. Now, there was a friend of mine, not from the office, that did a little coke, so I talked to him, sold him a few grams. Told him I had a new connection, asked him how he liked the stuff. I sold it to him real cheap, made him happy, got him talking about his connection and how much he usually paid, and the long and the short of it was that I found out who his connection was, and I went to him and showed him a sample of the stuff."

"The guy like it?"

"He liked it fine, and he liked the price I quoted to him. The only problem was he wasn't big time. I mean, he couldn't handle any real quantity. He was just a guy who sold a few grams to a few friends."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I sounded him out and made him a proposition. Tried to see if he'd be willing to turn his business around, and instead of buying, start selling to his connection, undercutting whoever was selling to him."

"Did that work?"

"No, because he said he thought his connection wasn't really big time either, just another guy who moved a little coke because he liked to have some around to snort. So I made him another proposition."

"What was that."

"I gave him an ounce of coke to introduce me to his connection."

"And he did it?"

"Yeah."

"And he didn't get paranoid that maybe you were a narc?"

"If he did, he didn't let on. I mean, you gotta understand the psychology of the coke-head. It's pretty hard to turn down a free ounce of really high-grade shit."

On the yellow pad I had written "coke friend," and "C. Friend's Connection." I now added, "C.F.Connection's Connection."

"So what happened with the next guy?"

"That was different. This guy was dealing ounces, which meant he was buying pounds, which meant the guy he was buying from was dealing pounds. Which meant we had a market. This guy and I agreed to sell pounds back to his source. It wasn't that hard to set up a deal, because the guy was paying a fair amount for his pounds, and all I had to do was undercut that

enough to assure that the guy made a grand or two on his sale, and that the price would fall under his connection's buying price. I could do that, no problem, since I hadn't paid anything for the coke and I didn't have to worry about profit margin. Anything I made was pure gravy. So I gave the guy a pound to sell.:

"Did you know who he was selling it to?"

"I knew the guy's name and address, I made him give me that. But I never met the guy himself. I didn't want to. He was some Hispanic guy from the lower East side, and he was obviously into some very heavy shit. I knew who he was, just to protect myself, but I didn't want him to know who I was."

"So what happened?"

"The guy came back, gave me the amount I'd asked for, and said he could move some more."

"Which he did?"

"Sure. We moved a total of seven pounds in five weeks."

"I thought you only had five pounds."

"Yeah, but in between I made another Miami run."

"I see."

"Yeah. So I made enough profit to pay off the debt and get out from under."

"What'd you tell your friends at the casino?"

"About where the money came from?"

"Yeah."

"I told em I made a killing at Atlantic City."

"They buy it?"

"They seemed to. See, I was very careful. I really did go to Atlantic City. I even asked my friend from work to go with\ me, knowing he couldn't come. So I think I pulled it off."

"What about the other guy?"

"The casino owner? Uh, what the hell did we call him?"

"It doesn't matter. I just gave you the bullshit names because you didn't seem to be able to tell your story without em. You seem to be having no problem now."

He thought about it. "Yeah, I guess so. What were we talking about? On yeah, the casino owner. Well, there didn't seem to be any solution with him either. In fact, he told me the other guy who'd been giving me the suitcases wanted to know when I was making another trip."

"So what went wrong?"

"I don't know. That is, I don't know for sure, but somewhere, somehow, the trails of the guy who was giving me the suitcases and the guy who was buying our pounds must have crossed."

"How do you know?"

"Because when the guy who was selling for me went to deliver the last pound, the guy who was buying from him was dead."

"What!"

"Yeah. And it wasn't pretty, either. He'd been shot in the head, execution style. And his cock had been cut off and shoved in his mouth."

"When did this happen?"

"Two days ago."

What are the police doing about it?"

"Nothing. They don't know about it."

"Why not?"

"My man wasn't about to go to the police, you know. I mean he was scared. Not just about the drug rap, about the murder. I mean, if you're dealing with a drug trafficker, and he gets bumped off, who's the first suspect."

"So what did he do?"

"He got rid of the body."

"How?"

"Dumped it in the East River."

"Tied to some concrete?"

"Yeah."

"You guys watch a lot of late movies?"

"What?"

"You making this up?"

"So help me."

The phone rang. I picked it up. It was one of the secretaries for the lawyer I worked for. She said he had a new case in Brooklyn he wanted me to go sign up. I wrote down the info, told her I'd handle it, and hung up.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Go on."

"That's it."

"What's it?"

"That's the story."

"No it isn't. How does this involve you? The killing, I mean."

"I told you. Somehow their paths must have crossed. The guy who got killed and the guy I ripped the shit off from. They found out the guy was selling their own shit, so they killed him."

"That doesn't make any sense. How would they know it was their own stuff?"

"Only one way. They must have traced its source back to me."

A light went on. "So that's what you're worried about."

"Of course."

"Is this just paranoia on your part - forgive the word. Are you just deducing this from what happened, or has there been an actual attempt on your life?"

"No. Nothing like that. See, I haven't been near the casino, I mean, since the murder. So I haven't seen any of the guys. But I have been to work. So, if they're checking on me, they know I'm not sick because I've been going to work. And then this morning I got the phone call."

"What phone call?"

"Well, you gotta understand. I have a private office. My secretary works outside. Then there's the main switchboard for the company. This call came in through the switchboard. The operator rang my secretary's number. She answered. It was a man asking for me. She'd never heard his voice before. She asked his name. He gave her his name and the name of the company we do business with. She put him on hold a rang me. I recognized the name of the company, but not the name of the man. I told her I'd take it. I pushed the button for the line and said, Hello'. The line immediately went dead."

"Maybe the call got disconnected while he was on hold."

"No. You can tell the difference. The line was open when I picked it up. I said Hello' and it went dead."

"Yeah, but -"

"Wait a minute. I called the company he said he worked for. They'd never heard of him."

"When was that?"

"This morning. Just now. I figured it was them. They were just checking to see if I was at work. That's why I got out of there. I was afraid they were coming for me. Or if not, they'd be waiting for me to get off work. So I left. I didn't know where I was going, I just wanted to get out of there. I guessed I panicked. Anyway, I got out of there fast. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where I was going. I was just going. Then I saw your sign."

I sighed. Shit. That goddamn sign. The ball was in my court now, and this guy was about

to discover I didn't have a backhand.

"So?"

"So that's the story."

"No it isn't. You said you wanted to kill someone."

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"Whoever's trying to kill me."

"And who do you think that is?"

"I don't know."

I gave him a look.

"All right, all right," he said. "I do know. It's Bambi and Pluto for Christ's sake! But it's not them I have to watch out for. They'll send somebody. Somebody who kills people. Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?"

I took a deep breath. "Look," I said, "I know you're upset. I'm trying to make allowances. But you're not making very much sense. Just what are you going to do?"

He tugged out his handkerchief and mopped his face again. "All right," he said. "I don't think anyone followed me here. I think I'm safe now. So I'm going to stay out all day. I won't go back to the office and I won't go to my apartment. Then tonight i'm gonna drop by the casino, place a couple of bets and leave. I won't stay long enough to get involved in any conversations. I'll just pop in and out."

"And?"

"I'll see who follows me."

"How?"

"That's were you come in."

"I see. You want me to stake out the casino and get a line on anyone who tries to follow you when you leave."

"That's right."

"And then you're going to kill that person."

This time he didn't bother with the handkerchief, he just mopped his brow with his hand. "Ah, shit, I really don't want to kill anybody. I mean, when I said that I was upset. Besides, it wouldn't do n\me any good. Obviously the guy's not doing it for himself, he's doing it for the other guys. What I really want to do is head the guy off, but some time, try to figure some was to get these people off my back. I don't want to wind up with my dick in my mouth."

"I understand the sentiment."

"That's also where you come in. I may not be able to spot the guy who's following me. I

probably won't. Now, he may just tail me. In that case, all I need is for you to get a line on him, tell me who he is. But he may try to take me out right then and there. In that case, I need protection. Now, I understand your not wanting to get involved in a murder, but I take it you would have no scruples about defending a private citizen from assault.

It was time to end the game.

"Look, Mr. Albrect, I have to tell you something. What you really want is a bodyguard, and I'm not it."

He looked betrayed. "You're a detective. You've heard my story. Forget what I said about killing someone. I'm not asking you to do anything illegal."

"I know. You just picked the wrong guy."

"But--"

"Look, I'm not going to argue with you. Just let me tell you who I am. Then you decide if you want me."

I paused, groping for the right words. None came, so I plunged right in. "I'm not really a detective."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Well, I am, but I'm not," I said. "I chase ambulances."

"What?"

"I'm an ambulance chaser. Look, you know all the lawyers that advertise on TV for accident cases? Well, I work for one of them. He handles insurance claims. People fall down and break their legs, they see his ad on TV, they call him up. He calls me. I go interview the people, take down the information about the accident, try to get em to sign a retainer. Then I go take pictures of the scene of the accident. Sometimes I interview a witness. Sometimes I serve a subpoena or a summons. I don't do surveillance. I'm basically non-aggressive. I don't carry a gun. I couldn't fight my way out of a paper bag. The most dangerous thing I do is go into some pretty undesirable neighborhoods to interview prospective clients. I don't like it. I always feel as if I have a sign saying "mug me" on my back. Actually, I've never had a problem. People who see me going into slums and housing projects figure I'm either a cop or I'm out of my mind, and they leave me alone. That's what I do. And that's all I do. You're the first person who's ever asked me to do anything else."

I stopped talking. He looked at me. He'd been looking at me the whole time I was talking, and his expression didn't change when I stopped. He just kept looking at me. It was hard to read his expression. He looked a little like a steer must when it's just been hit over the head with a sledgehammer at the slaughterhouse. Incredulous. Disbelieving. But something else, too. He blinked his eyes.. His lips moved, but nothing came out. Then he said, almost in awe, "You're useless." He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, you're absolutely useless, aren't you."

He got to his feet as if in a daze and started for the door, still shaking his head. "Useless," he muttered. He opened the door and went out. The door closed behind him.

I sat there as his steps faded away down the corridor.