12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  As words went, I figured innocent bystander a far more tactful choice than unwitting dupe. Still, I wasn’t sure if I was getting anywhere.

  Turned out I was.

  “So,” the woman said, mulling it over out loud. “You’re saying if I tell you what I know, it would be considered a show of good faith in the event it turned out the deal wasn’t kosher?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  “You’re saying I would not be selling out a client, merely explaining an irregular booking?”

  “Exactly.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think I could do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You come to me as a client, I treat you as a client.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll pardon me, but who are you? Some man off the street comes in, wants to ask me some questions. Why should I answer? What’s in it for me?”

  Now I was sure Lucy Blaine’d called her.

  “What should be in it for you?” I said.

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “Then I’ll have to leave it, ’cause I ain’t got it.”

  “What have you got?”

  I had a hundred dollars. I’d taken it out of the cash machine on the way over, on the off chance it came to that. That Lucy Blaine had called her. Had told her what had happened. Had told her what I’d paid her. Just on the off chance it came down to a hundred bucks would get me what I needed to know.

  Damn.

  Turned out it would.

  And Cranston Pritchert hadn’t authorized it.

  Which made it my hundred bucks.

  Damn.

  Just how bad did I want to know?

  Okay, so I’m stupid. But sitting there in the poker game of life, I just couldn’t bear to fold. There was too much at stake.

  If I had to throw a hundred bucks in the pot, it seemed no way I wasn’t going to make it back threefold.

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out the five twenties that had popped out of the cash machine.

  “A hundred bucks,” I said, “if you tell me what I need to know.”

  I pushed it toward the center of the desk and stood there.

  She didn’t move, just sat there eyeing it.

  And I felt great. I got you, babe. There’s my bet. Call, raise, or fold.

  She called.

  A bony hand snaked out, grabbed the bills, folded them up.

  “Okay,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “You met the guy who hired Lucy Blaine?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He walked in the door, just like you did.”

  “He call first?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I get calls all day long. Inquiries.” She shrugged. “Any one of them might have been him.”

  “Like the phone call when I came in?”

  She grinned, stubbed out the cigarette. “What phone call? You’re paying for it, so what the hell.” She lit another cigarette, blew out the smoke, and jerked her thumb. “I hear someone come to the door, I’m on the phone. It looks like a sucker, I’m talking hot babes. It looks like a cop, I’m into the my-girls-don’t-do-that-stuff routine.”

  “I look like a cop?”

  “No offense, but you could have been.”

  “Great,” I said. “Now, what about this guy?”

  “He comes in like I said, and wants to hire a girl.” She shrugged. “Well, I’m cagy, of course—he could be a cop. But we talk it over, and he sounds legit.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Most of it you already know. He wants a girl to hang out in a singles bar and have drinks with a guy Thursday night, five to seven.”

  “That’s the whole thing?”

  “That’s it. She’s to keep him there, and under no circumstances is she to let him go.”

  “What if he tries to leave?”

  “She’s to stop him. Whatever it takes.”

  “What if she can’t?”

  “She’s to go with him, try to steer him somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter, just so long as she doesn’t let him get out of her sight.”

  “Any other instructions? Anything special she was supposed to do?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  Damn.

  “And the guy she was supposed to have drinks with—did he tell you who he was?”

  “No. He said that was something he’d take up with her.”

  “And you agreed to that?”

  She cocked her head. Pointed. “You makin’ a judgment here?”

  I put up my hand. “No, no. I’m just asking for the information. The fact is, the client didn’t tell you about the bar or the guy or anything of the sort? None of the specifics?”

  “Like I say, no. All we discussed was the deal.”

  “What was the deal?”

  She paused a moment. Then, almost defiantly, “The deal was a thousand dollars. Five hundred to the girl, five hundred to me.”

  “A thousand dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “How do you think? He paid in cash.”

  I exhaled. “Uh-huh. And the client—did he happen to give you his name?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “What a surprise,” I said. “But you did meet this guy. Talk to him in person.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “I couldn’t miss him.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  “That string bean?” She snorted. “Hell, he had to be six six.

  19.

  SERGEANT MACAULLIF COCKED HIS HEAD.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Hmm. Ten times more cordial a greeting than I might have expected. Sergeant MacAullif was a homicide officer with whom I’d been associated on several occasions. Those associations had ranged from the cordial to the less than cordial, such as the time he’d slammed me up against the side of a car while my arm was in a sling. Not that he hadn’t had provocation. Still, in dealing with MacAullif, one was never sure quite what to expect. So a neutral greeting was fine.

  “I was just in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop in.”

  MacAullif’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back in his desk chair, cocked his head. “Don’t put me in a bad mood. I’m having a perfectly good day, no reason to spoil it by acting cute.”

  “You don’t buy the just-in-the-neighborhood bit?”

  “Give me a break. What kind of case are you on?”

  “A totally frustrating one.”

  “You done anything illegal yet?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What’s the matter? Sudden attack of ethics?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “What?”

  “Ethics really is the problem.”

  “Oh, you got a problem?”

  “Well, now that you mention it.”

  “Don’t piss me off,” MacAullif said. “I’m in too good a mood. You know why I’m in a good mood? I cleared two cases yesterday. I got a lead on a third. Plus, the turn-’em-loose judge scheduled to try the repeat offender I nailed dead to rights just came down with the flu, and the case has been reassigned to a hard-nose jurist who’ll put the creep away. Now, that may not sound like much to you, but frankly I don’t have days like this often. So, you wanna spoil it for me, you’re gonna have to work overtime.”

  “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “’Cause you’re a total pain in the ass can’t handle the simplest thing without makin’ it worse than it is. Now, you say you got an ethical problem?”

  “In a way.”

  “In what way would that be?” />
  “A private detective’s got a duty to his client, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “What if the client isn’t shooting square?”

  MacAullif shrugged. “Most clients are gonna lie. That’s a fact of life. If that was enough to relieve you of your obligations, there wouldn’t be any.”

  “Clients?”

  “Obligations.”

  “Suppose it’s worse than that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose the client’s playing you for a sucker?”

  “In your case, that’s no surprise. Though I am surprised that you noticed.”

  “Want to hear the story or not?”

  “The story of how you got duped? Go ahead. Make my day.”

  I gave him the whole spiel from top to bottom, including the phony extortion letter, the topless dancer, and the chain-smoking talent agent.

  As he listened, MacAullif s smile grew broader and broader. By the time I was finished, he was grinning like a zany.

  “I love it,” he said. “I absolutely love it. You’re like one of those hamsters that runs around on a wheel—no matter how fast you go, you never get anyplace.”

  “Thank you. That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

  “So, what’s the punch line? How much are you being paid to do this?”

  “How does fifty bucks an hour sound?”

  “For bein’ a patsy? Barely adequate. How much of it have you actually seen?”

  “Oh, well there …”

  “Oh, well there? I love it. Could you translate that, please?”

  “I got a two hundred buck retainer.”

  “And?”

  “I laid out three hundred in expenses.”

  MacAullif nodded. “Perfect. Just perfect. You should write this up for Detective Monthly. Hell, you might even get the centerfold.”

  “I told you it was a mess, MacAullif.”

  “That you did. And you didn’t lie. Tell me, why are you bringing this to me? Isn’t this the kind of thing you should lay on Rosenberg?”

  “He’s gone home for the day.”

  “Ah, better and better,” MacAullif said. “You’re telling me I wasn’t even your first choice.”

  “You were third.”

  “Third?”

  “My wife’s at a PTA meeting.”

  “I can’t even tell if that’s true or a wisecrack. Listen, just what is it you’re after here?”

  “Like I said, what’s my obligation? I think I’m being used as part of some elaborate scam. Ethically, how am I bound?”

  “Don’t be a jackass. You aren’t bound at all.”

  “Yeah, but do I have a right to take action against the best interests of my own client?”

  “Such as?”

  “Okay. Let’s assume my client set this up. Say he’s the six foot six individual who showed up at the talent agency and arranged to hire this girl.”

  “Which has yet to be proven,” MacAullif pointed out.

  “Yeah, but take it as a premise. My client’s one of three vice-presidents in a company about to elect a new chairman of the board. It’s hotly contested, and there’s a proxy fight going on. My client claims he’s being set up, and hires me to investigate. Lo and behold, I discover someone did hire a girl to try to pick him up in a bar. My client cries foul, drags me to the stockholders meeting, and asks me to tell what I know.”

  “Would that work?”

  “I’m not sure. Frankly, I’m not that sharp at business matters.”

  “No shit.”

  “But the way I understand it, aside from three vice-presidents, the largest stockholder is the granddaughter of the late chairman of the board. She would be at the meeting, and might be influenced by what I had to say.”

  “You mean whoever she votes for is in?”

  “Not necessarily. The holdings aren’t that big. In the end, the proxies will decide it.”

  MacAullif frowned. “When’s the meeting?”

  “Next week.”

  “Then the proxies must already be in.”

  “True, but if my client’s doing what I think he’s doing, then his next move would be to call the larger stockholders and get them to come to the meeting in person. A proxy is superseded when the stockholder’s actually there. So, he’d get enough stockholders at the meeting to gain a controlling interest, and then have me do my stuff.”

  “How do you know all that—about proxies, I mean?”

  “Actually, I read it in a book.”

  “A detective novel?”

  “That doesn’t make it wrong.”

  “It doesn’t make it right, either.”

  “No, but it’s logical. Everything points to it. I locate this talent agent and my client tells me not to interview her. I can’t understand why, but the answer is simple. He’s the one who hired her, and he doesn’t want me to uncover that.”

  “I got all that,” MacAullif said. “You don’t have to spell it out. Listen, all ethical considerations aside, why should it ever come to that? Why don’t you just confront your client with this?”

  “Can’t reach him. I called him at home, his wife said he was working late. I called him at work, and the office is closed.”

  “So you decided to lay it on me.”

  “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

  “Actually, I did,” MacAullif said. “You made a total fool of yourself. But you didn’t do anything illegal. You didn’t make me an accessory to a crime. And you didn’t present me with anything I have to act on. All you did was expose yourself to humiliation and ridicule.” He shrugged, shook his head. “Hell, it’s the best of all possible worlds.”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said. “Suppose I talk to my client, and he denies being the guy who hired the girl, claims he was set up and demands I go to the stockholders meeting and tell what I know—what the hell do I do then?”

  MacAullif grinned, nodded in agreement with himself.

  “The best of all possible worlds.”

  20.

  I CAME OUT OF ONE Police Plaza, walked down to City Hall, and caught the Lexington Avenue Express uptown. I had my car, but I’d left it uptown in the municipal lot. You can’t fight City Hall, and you can’t park near it either. When visiting MacAullif, I often took the subway. Just another glamorous, strap-hanging New York PI.

  I came up for air at Lexington Avenue and 59th Street, and walked uptown to 66th. There was a pay phone on the corner that appeared to be both unoccupied and working, a long-shot parlay in New York City. I considered investing a quarter to see if Cranston Pritchert was there. I decided against it. I didn’t really want to warn him I was coming. No, I’d only call upstairs if I couldn’t get in.

  Turned out I could. The lobby was wide open. Which was a bit unusual. Manhattan office buildings often lock the doors at night, have security guards, make visitors sign a register to get in, or some combination of the three. Cranston Pritchert’s building had none of them. The employees of Philip Greenberg Investments could come and go as they pleased.

  Of course, so could various assorted derelicts, winos, muggers, rapists, and murderers, but hey, it wasn’t my building.

  I went in, rang for the elevator, took it up to the eighth floor.

  As I came out of the elevator and walked down the hall, it occurred to me I’d done exactly the same thing the day before, when I’d barged in to confront Cranston Pritchert with faking the extortion letter. And here I was, not much more than twenty-four hours later, confronting him with yet another perfidious act. It occurred to me my client and I did not have the best possible working relationship.

  The massive oak door guarding the offices of Philip Greenberg Investments looked formidable, but proved to be unlocked. I slipped in, closing it gently behind me—no need to warn my prey. Lights were on, but there was no one there. I cocked my head, listened, couldn’t hear a sound. If Pritchert was there, he must be in his office.

  He wasn’t, though. When I
walked down the hall and poked my head in, there was no one there. Then it occurred to me, was this really his office? I mean, how much attention had I been paying yesterday? He’d led me in here, talking all the time. My only real concern had been the wastebasket. Yes, there was one there, but it was standard office furniture, and who was to say every office didn’t have one just like it? I mean, was that really his desk?

  I walked around it, surveyed the top. A telephone, an appointment book, a memo pad.

  And a letter addressed to Cranston Pritchert.

  Yes, this was his office.

  So, where the hell was he?

  Well, more than likely, out to dinner.

  And, cynical son of a bitch that I am, it occurred to me he was probably out to dinner with Lucy Blaine, Marla Melons, or whatever the hell her name was, and the two of them were laughing their ass off over this scam they pulled on the poor dipshit PI.

  It also occurred to me, I hadn’t had dinner at all.

  Suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper.

  So, what did I do now? Go home, or wait for my client to come back?

  Well, after my talk with MacAullif, I was too pissed to go home. It wasn’t just that the guy had lied to me. Hell, I wanted to get paid.

  While I waited, I checked out the other offices.

  The one at the end of the hall was twice the size of Cranston Pritchert’s, and boasted a portable bar. Obviously the office of the late Philip Greenberg. I wondered if Cranston would get it, if he succeeded in being elected chairman of the board.

  Across the hall was an office identical to Pritchert’s. The letters on that desk were addressed to a Mr. Kevin Dunbar.

  I tried to stem the growing sense of pride over the ease with which my efficient detective work was identifying the occupants of the offices.

  Next to Dunbar’s was an office dominated by file cabinets, calculators, and ledger books. I didn’t want to get cocky, but I had a feeling it might belong to the accountant.

  The office next to it was identical to Kevin Dunbar and Cranston Pritchert’s.

  With one small exception.

  The body of Cranston Pritchert lay stretched out on the floor.