Read Online American Detective: An Amos Walker Novel by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page B

up a cubic inch and a half of the glass she handed me. At least it was glass. When I was comfortable in a reclinerwith my drink she smoothed the front of her slacks and said, “Please excuse me while I check on her.”
    She went through a plain door behind which a hair dryer roared, mincing around the edge, and pushed it shut. I took a ten-dollar sip and then she came back out, reversing the movement. She walked as if her feet had been bound in infancy. “She’ll be one minute. Shall I turn on the TV?”
    “I bet you could, but let’s not. These hotels get eighty channels and forty of them are
Designing Women
. What sort of boss is Mrs. Sing to work for?”
    “Madame Sing,” she corrected. “She pays very well and she treats her employees with respect.”
    “Not like the Kyoto Health Spa out by the airport.”
    Her face went as dead as turned wood. “You only say that because I’m yellow.”
    “Partly. I admit it. In my work you judge by the folder and make adjustments as necessary. The rest is experience. You’ve got strong hands. The knuckles are splayed like a scrubwoman’s, but smooth, with no dirt in the creases. That comes from working them in oil.”
    “Am I supposed to be impressed by your detective work?”
    “Don’t bother. The fact is you work for Charlotte Sing, who made her case dough from the massage business. A lot of these self-made millionaires make it a point to promote from within. I winged the rest. Except you do have strong hands.”
    “Eight hours a day at a computer keyboard will do that, too. But if you want to discuss hand jobs—yes, I know the basics. Another?” she said brightly.
    I followed her gaze to my empty glass. I didn’t remember drinking. I said no thanks and set it on a table.
    Just then the dryer stopped howling. At the end of a loud silence the bathroom door opened and a woman came outwearing paper slippers and a terry robe. She was as small as her assistant; the fluffy white material wrapped around her nearly twice and brushed her insteps. Her hair was cut straight across her eyebrows in blue-black bangs, dyed probably, and stopped abruptly at the corners of her jaws. She was about the same age as the other woman but showed it more in the beginnings of jowls and lines in her neck. She looked at me without smiling, then at the assistant. “Mai, please go in and check my dress for wrinkles. They should be steamed out by now, but if not, you’ll need to run the shower a bit longer.”
    “Yes, Madame.” She went into the bathroom and pushed the door to.
    “Alone at last.” I grinned.
    The woman didn’t. “You fulfill the common expectations of an American detective. Which raised my suspicions. Most things genuine aren’t what you expect. May I see your credentials?”
    I gave her the flapper. “Ignore the badge. I only carry it for ballast.”
    She slid the photo card out of its window, inspected both sides, and put it back. My concealed weapons permit was folded inside and she took that out too and unfolded and read it, front to back, then returned it. “Are you armed at present?”
    “No. It didn’t seem like that kind of hotel.”
    “Unconvincing.”
    “Frisk me. While you’re at it, I’ve got a touch of bursitis in my left shoulder.”
    But she didn’t anger that easily. “I meant this.” She stuck out the folder between two fingers. “There’s a laser shop on every corner, and the card isn’t a challenge to duplicate to begin with. Anyone can obtain permission to carry a gun in this state if he doesn’t have a criminal record.”
    “On the other hand,” I said, pocketing the folder, “who’d want to impersonate an American detective?”
    “Tell me about the Fuller killing.”
    “So you did look it up.”
    “Mai did. It was just breaking. There weren’t many details. Are you working for Hilary Bairn? You said you had a proposition for him, but that could have been a Trojan horse.”
    I reached over and circled a finger inside my empty