Being a private investigator aint what it used to be, Bob Trout commiserated with himself. He slouched in his burgundy office chair, head sagging on his chest, right hand picking idly at the white stuffing popping up from the torn leatherette at the end of the arm. Of course, what it used to be never was what it used to be. Not for Bob Trout anyway. What happened in all those Mickey Spillane stories he read remained fantasy for Bob. His life as a private eye never came close to the romanticized actions in the cheap detective novels he relished. The thirty-eight revolver in the shoulder holster he wore had never been removed to be fired, except at the practice range.
Things are bad enough in good times, Trout complained aloud, but this is the pits. Hed even been forced to let Bitsy, his secretary, go. Sure hated to do it. Not good for my business image. A sexy bit of fluff behind the desk in the outer office makes a good impression. Besides, Trout was still trying to get her to go to bed with him. Like they did in his detective novels.
Not having Bitsy around meant having no one in the office to talk with. For that reason Trout relaxed his rule about not taking a drink before noon. Which is how he came to be sitting behind his cluttered desk, food-stained tie unloosened, a drink of scotch and water in his hand, having a pity party before the mail even arrived.
At one time you could make a decent living in this town, he grumbled, but not any more. All I get lately is someone who wants their husband or wife tailed as part of divorce proceedings. Hardly pays the rent.
Trout took another swig of scotch. He recalled the one wife tracing case that did pay good money. Been eight, nine years ago now. Seemed strange at the time, one man having another man(s wife followed. I didnt even know then who paid my fee.
Ever since his chance encounter with Jeff and Eileen at the casino in Biloxi, when he learned the man who paid him turned out to be Stephen Fike, the head honcho of the Pendulum Party, Trout kept a running file on when this Harper woman came to town. A few well-placed twenties with the maids at the gulf coast casino gave him the information he wanted about their meetings there without needing to make trips to the coast himself.
Over the years his file grew with quite a few reports he planned to use someday. Now she and the professor are big shots in the Pendulum Party. Yeah, and her husband is, too. And that puts them in touch with the President of the United States. Maybe its time to turn that file into cash.
Trout still remembered how menacing Fike sounded when he said he expected to receive the only copy of his report. Said if he ever discovered I made copies something very unfortunate would happen to me. Seemed like a nice fellow until he added that. Now that I know who he is, I can appreciate how he could carry through on his threat. Hes a big man in the casino industry.
Fike doesnt know Ive continued to build a file on Harper and her professor friend, and I dont want him to find out. Cooper might be interested to learn about it. Hes the kind of guy who might pay to protect a lady(s honor(and his own neck, considering who Walter Harper is. But he doesnt have the kind of money Im thinking about using my file to get. The Harper dame might be interested. Might spoil her little setup if I spilled the beans. Wonder how much of her husbands money she can lay her hands on.
Trout tried to sort out the best way to turn his file into cash. His scotch-muddled reasoning finally decided on Walter Harper. Might make things bad for his wife when he finds out, but why should I care about her? Brought it on herself, didnt she?
One thing made him hesitant. Ol Walt probably has connections with the mob, but I dont know that for sure. A few more gulps of scotch screwed up Trouts courage. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Why should I worry about the mob? I can take care of myself, cant I? Been doing it for forty-three years. He gave his thirty-eight a pat. Besides, Id better do something to bring in some cash. If I score big on this, I can clear out of here before theyll know Im gone. Go hunt for virgins in the Virgin Islands, he gave an alcoholic hiccup of a laugh, or somewhere down in the Caribbean. Tahiti maybe. Wonder if the women still go bare-chested there. Ill need to play this just right, though.
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