Read Online A Nasty Piece of Work by Robert Littell - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Littell
Tags: thriller, Mystery & Crime
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he disappeared to.”
Out on the sidewalk, Awlson offered a hand. He hadn’t done this before with me. I shook it. “I didn’t fall for your Santa Fe All-State Indemnity crap,” he remarked.
“Didn’t think you would,” I said. “At least not for long. But we’re on the same page when it comes to bail jumpers.”
He thought about that. “Yes and no. You’re a private eye. You’ve got a client who needs to find this Gava clown before I do.”
I shrugged. “Sorry I didn’t come clean.”
He shrugged back. “What’s next on your Santa Fe All-State Indemnity agenda?” he asked.
“I probably ought to have a heart-to-heart talk with the out-of-state lawyer who turned up to spring Emilio Gava.”
Eleven
On a porcelain-brittle morning I wedged myself into a seat between a pasty-faced anesthetist returning from a tax-deductible medical convention and a waif-woman who could have passed for female from the neck up but looked like a twelve-year-old boy from the neck down. Coming into Chicago, with the wheels about to graze the tarmac, the three of us were scared out of our skins when the plane was clobbered by a sudden rainsquall and wind shear. Gunning both engines so hard the wings seemed to flap like a bird’s, the pilot circled around for a second go. I mention this because the fright I experienced was nothing compared to the mortal terror I felt when, an hour and a quarter later, an aluminum space capsule moonlighting as an elevator whisked me up eighteen—count them, eighteen—floors without my realizing it had even moved. The thing that gave it away was the decor. On the ground floor I’d been gazing dumbly out at another bank of elevators and a fancy sign that said CRESSWELL BUILDING . When the doors slipped soundlessly open a few moments later, I assumed I’d see the same bank of elevators and reached over to punch eighteen again. Instead I found myself staring at a silver wall with giant silver letters on it that read FONTENROSE & FONTENROSE . A wispy brunette with streaks of silver in her teased hair (“Receptionist wanted, experience helpful, silver streaks in hair a must”) and enough mascara to ballast a pocket battleship was holding fort behind an aluminum table in front of the wall. Coming at her from the side, I could make out a very short and very tight skirt and a pair of very knobby knees. The receptionist tore her eyes away from her fashion magazine with an obvious effort.
“Talk about coincidences,” I said. “That girl in that picture”—I twisted my head so I could make out the page she was reading right side up—“I was sitting next to her in the plane this morning.”
“You have got to be kidding! I’d give up not smoking to meet Julia Crab. What was she like?”
“Don’t know. She put a mask over her eyes and slept the whole way. The only time she said anything was when we almost crashed. What she said was not something I can repeat to a lady.” I leaned over the desk and lowered my voice as if I were sharing a state secret. “I’m here to see Mr. Fontenrose.”
“I could have guessed that,” she purred, eyeing me with interest. “We’re the only ones on the floor. Which Mr. Fontenrose?”
“How many are there?”
“Seven, not including the two sons-in-law with different last names.”
“R. Russell is my man.”
“Whom shall I announce?” she asked with a slightly breathless Marilyn Monroe lisp.
“DSC Lemuel Gunn.”
She screwed up her mouth in disbelief. “And what, pardon the prying, does the DSC stand for?”
“Deputy station chief, darling, which happens to have been the last rank I held before the Central Intelligence Agency fired me for conduct unbecoming.”
As her pointed bosom thrashed around inside a blouse that had been bought one size too small or had shrunk in the wash, she directed me to an enormous leather couch and then stabbed at numbers on her house phone. There was a shoelace-high aluminum-and-glass table in front
Out on the sidewalk, Awlson offered a hand. He hadn’t done this before with me. I shook it. “I didn’t fall for your Santa Fe All-State Indemnity crap,” he remarked.
“Didn’t think you would,” I said. “At least not for long. But we’re on the same page when it comes to bail jumpers.”
He thought about that. “Yes and no. You’re a private eye. You’ve got a client who needs to find this Gava clown before I do.”
I shrugged. “Sorry I didn’t come clean.”
He shrugged back. “What’s next on your Santa Fe All-State Indemnity agenda?” he asked.
“I probably ought to have a heart-to-heart talk with the out-of-state lawyer who turned up to spring Emilio Gava.”
Eleven
On a porcelain-brittle morning I wedged myself into a seat between a pasty-faced anesthetist returning from a tax-deductible medical convention and a waif-woman who could have passed for female from the neck up but looked like a twelve-year-old boy from the neck down. Coming into Chicago, with the wheels about to graze the tarmac, the three of us were scared out of our skins when the plane was clobbered by a sudden rainsquall and wind shear. Gunning both engines so hard the wings seemed to flap like a bird’s, the pilot circled around for a second go. I mention this because the fright I experienced was nothing compared to the mortal terror I felt when, an hour and a quarter later, an aluminum space capsule moonlighting as an elevator whisked me up eighteen—count them, eighteen—floors without my realizing it had even moved. The thing that gave it away was the decor. On the ground floor I’d been gazing dumbly out at another bank of elevators and a fancy sign that said CRESSWELL BUILDING . When the doors slipped soundlessly open a few moments later, I assumed I’d see the same bank of elevators and reached over to punch eighteen again. Instead I found myself staring at a silver wall with giant silver letters on it that read FONTENROSE & FONTENROSE . A wispy brunette with streaks of silver in her teased hair (“Receptionist wanted, experience helpful, silver streaks in hair a must”) and enough mascara to ballast a pocket battleship was holding fort behind an aluminum table in front of the wall. Coming at her from the side, I could make out a very short and very tight skirt and a pair of very knobby knees. The receptionist tore her eyes away from her fashion magazine with an obvious effort.
“Talk about coincidences,” I said. “That girl in that picture”—I twisted my head so I could make out the page she was reading right side up—“I was sitting next to her in the plane this morning.”
“You have got to be kidding! I’d give up not smoking to meet Julia Crab. What was she like?”
“Don’t know. She put a mask over her eyes and slept the whole way. The only time she said anything was when we almost crashed. What she said was not something I can repeat to a lady.” I leaned over the desk and lowered my voice as if I were sharing a state secret. “I’m here to see Mr. Fontenrose.”
“I could have guessed that,” she purred, eyeing me with interest. “We’re the only ones on the floor. Which Mr. Fontenrose?”
“How many are there?”
“Seven, not including the two sons-in-law with different last names.”
“R. Russell is my man.”
“Whom shall I announce?” she asked with a slightly breathless Marilyn Monroe lisp.
“DSC Lemuel Gunn.”
She screwed up her mouth in disbelief. “And what, pardon the prying, does the DSC stand for?”
“Deputy station chief, darling, which happens to have been the last rank I held before the Central Intelligence Agency fired me for conduct unbecoming.”
As her pointed bosom thrashed around inside a blouse that had been bought one size too small or had shrunk in the wash, she directed me to an enormous leather couch and then stabbed at numbers on her house phone. There was a shoelace-high aluminum-and-glass table in front
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