*****
I walked into the restaurant at around half past noon and said I was to meet Sinclair for lunch. The hostess took me to a small private dining room where Sinclair was already waiting for me. A waitress followed me in. Sinclair and I shook hands, and I sat down.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Dafoe?”
“No thanks, water with a twist of lemon will do.”
“I’ll have the same, and just bring me the Club sandwich with fries. Mr. Dafoe?”
Christ, he was in a hurry. I hadn’t even looked at the menu.
“Same for me.” I said. The waitress left the room.
Sinclair looked the part of a behind-the-scenes guy. Mid-forties, glass, bald with a fringe of brown-gray hair. He wore a white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and grey slacks. Average sized. He looked at me and quickly got down to the most important issue.
“Got the money?”
Damn. What an asshole. At least, use some spit before you fuck me.
I reached inside my jacket, pulled out a fat white envelope and threw it on the table. He reached out with his left hand to grab it, and I slammed my right paw on top of his hand.
“First, there’s one ground rule, and it’s non-negotiable. If you pick up this envelope, then don’t tell me squat, I’ll kick the living shit out of you. I figure I can make bail with this cash since you’ll tell the cops it wasn’t yours. However, you'll be talking through a wired jaw when they take your statement. So think before you grab this. On the plus side, if you tell me something I think really worthwhile, I’ll throw you, personally, another grand.”
I opened my jacket with my left hand and let him see I had another envelope in my inside pocket. “It’s your call.” I closed my jacket.
I gotta give him credit. He didn’t flinch, didn’t get pissed. He just smiled and said, “Deal.”
I let go of his hand, and he took the envelope and pocketed it.
Just then, the waitress came in with our water and sandwiches. I stared at Sinclair as she put our food in front of us and asked her if we needed anything else. I shook my head “no” and Sinclair told her we were fine. She left.
As soon as the waitress was out of earshot I asked, “So, what can you tell me about Myra Kincaid?”
He picked up his water, took a sip and sat it back down.
“She was a—volunteer for Marc’s Greenville office a little over three years ago. Marc, indeed, the whole staff took an immediate liking to her.”
“Uh-huh. Did the congressman know she dropped out of school?”
“Yes, we were quite surprised when she showed up at our D.C. Office in the fall of ’82. It turns out Marc saw a lot of potential in her and arranged for her to be a staffer with Congressman Sam Eckard. He’s a congressman from Florida. Sam and Marc are good friends and this type of mentoring often occurs between colleagues.”
“Mentoring ? ” I snorted.
“Don’t push it Dafoe. Mentoring is as far as I’ll go.”
“Okay—mentoring it is. Tell me something useful. Does she still work for this Eckard?”
“No. She quit after a month or two. So did her relationship with our staff and Eckard’s.”
“Do you know where she lived? Did she have any friends?”
“She lived in Reston, Virginia. In a single-room apartment. Quail Creek was the name of the apartment complex. However, she left there as soon as she cut off contact with the Congressman.”
In other words, the Congressman quit paying the rent as soon as she quit screwin’ him.
“Okay, time to start earning your money. Did he break it off or did she?”
“She did. Empathically.”
“Has anyone seen her since she left?”
Sinclair smiled and looked at me.
“Throw in a second thousand, and I’ll tell you how to contact her.”
I sat back for to absorb his last words. After a moment I said, “Done—but I got to hear it first.”
He looked at me for what seemed an eternity, then shrugged his shoulders. He took out of his jacket a small notepad and pen. He flipped it open and began to write on it. After a writing a number down, he ripped the page out of the notepad folded it and handed it to me.
“Go to D.C., check into a four-star hotel and call this number. Now listen to this and get it down exactly. Tell them that you are in town for some agriculture business, that 'Robert Lee' recommended you call this number and ask for Steffi with an i. Got it? Agriculture, Robert Lee and Steffi with an ‘i’. They ask where she is to go and you tell them your hotel and room number. You're talking a cool grand just for the ‘date’, understand?.”
“How the hell do you know this?”
“Let’s just say she had a run-in with a friend of mine. Washington can be a small town when it comes to vices for the highly-connected. That’s as much as you are going to get out of me, now pay up.”
I chuckled, reached into my jacket and pulled out the envelope. I opened it, reached in, counted out two thousand bucks in hundreds and threw it on the table. I saw the look of disappointment when he saw I had brought more than enough spare cash. He should have asked for more.
In my calmest voice, I said, “I know all of this money is for you. I bet your boss doesn’t even know we’re having this little talk. Fine. But I swear to God, if this tip turns cold, I will physically hurt you sometime in the future. I know your name. That’s all I need to find you. You’ll never be able to prove it was me.”
Bastard just picked up his sandwich and took a bite. He knew bullshit when he heard it.
I got up and left.
I didn’t offer to pay for lunch.
Cold Pulp Trio Page 6