a wary second drink and warily flipped the record on the turntable. When that side was finished I tried some wary TV. It was getting thin by that time.
I caught the last twenty minutes of a colorized version of Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo — Spencer Tracy had blue eyes and a complexion like Deanna Durbin’s —and then the newsbreak came on just before sign-off. Someone had blown up a restaurant in Beirut and so far three groups had claimed credit for the explosion. The President had caught a fish while on vacation. Local news was dominated by the press conference following the announcement of the Stutch deal with Marianne Motors. Wonder Boy himself broke the news, fielded a few hyper questions from the reporters, then turned the floor over to Alfred Hendriks, his new general manager, and strode out of the room, stopping at the door to look back and wave before passing through it. He had no bodyguards that I could spot. Which might mean that he had some very good bodyguards. In any case I wasn’t paying too much attention to Marianne.
The reason for that was Alfred Hendriks. The slim handsome dark man who had taken his employer’s place at the podium had aged slightly, but he was the same man who had been photographed with the automaker at the time the contract was signed with the UAW; the same man, according to Richard DeVries, who had handed DeVries a Molotov cocktail to cover for an armored car robbery during the worst race riots in the city’s history.
9
I GOT UP the next morning with a stiff neck, some kind of delayed reaction to the dip in Lake Superior. I waggled it, bombarded it under the shower head, took a couple of aspirins, and rubbed in some cream from a tube that smelled like Stillman’s Gym. After a cup of coffee and a radio weather report calling for unseasonably high temperatures I put on the blue summerweight and knotted a red silk tie that looked cool and nonabrasive to my freshly shaved throat. By then my neck had frozen up tighter than a fence post. Backing the Renault out of the garage was one for Torquemada.
My office mail was fanned out under the slot in the door with A. WALKER INVESTIGATIONS lettered on the glass. I read the envelopes on my way through the waiting room and dumped them into the wastebasket in the private office. I used the duster on the desk and telephone, called my service to tell them I was in the traces, then looked up a number in the metropolitan directory, and used the telephone again.
“Marianne Motors, executive offices.” One of those quality-controlled female voices.
“Alfred Hendriks, please.”
“One moment.”
I listened to eight bars of the Marianne Motors advertising jingle.
“Mr. Hendriks’ office.” This one had been inspected even more closely.
“May I speak to Mr. Hendriks?”
“Who is calling?”
“Amos Walker.”
“Hold, please.”
Second chorus.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hendriks is in a meeting. May I take a message?”
I said no and told her good-bye. I lit a cigarette and smoked half of it. Then I ran the gauntlet again. I knew the jingle by heart now.
“Mr. Hendriks’ office.”
I deepened my voice a notch. “This is Adolf Wentz, vice president in Investments at Stutch Petrochemicals. We’ve run into a hitch and I need to discuss it with Mr. Hendriks.”
“One moment, Mr. Wentz.”
The jingle was cut off in mid-lyric. “What sort of hitch?”
This was a man’s voice, smoothly blended, but not smoothly enough to overcome the wheatfields in it; a toned-down Henry Fonda. “Mr. Hendriks?”
“What sort of hitch, Mr. Wentz?”
“Sort of none,” I said. “Adolf Wentz was my algebra teacher in high school. Those German names cut through a lot. My name’s Walker. I own a pocket comb with STUTCH PETROCHEMICALS stamped on it, but that’s my only connection with the firm.”
“If this is some kind of sales gimmick I want the name of your employer.” There was no change in his tone. Those were the dangerous ones. Give me a
I caught the last twenty minutes of a colorized version of Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo — Spencer Tracy had blue eyes and a complexion like Deanna Durbin’s —and then the newsbreak came on just before sign-off. Someone had blown up a restaurant in Beirut and so far three groups had claimed credit for the explosion. The President had caught a fish while on vacation. Local news was dominated by the press conference following the announcement of the Stutch deal with Marianne Motors. Wonder Boy himself broke the news, fielded a few hyper questions from the reporters, then turned the floor over to Alfred Hendriks, his new general manager, and strode out of the room, stopping at the door to look back and wave before passing through it. He had no bodyguards that I could spot. Which might mean that he had some very good bodyguards. In any case I wasn’t paying too much attention to Marianne.
The reason for that was Alfred Hendriks. The slim handsome dark man who had taken his employer’s place at the podium had aged slightly, but he was the same man who had been photographed with the automaker at the time the contract was signed with the UAW; the same man, according to Richard DeVries, who had handed DeVries a Molotov cocktail to cover for an armored car robbery during the worst race riots in the city’s history.
9
I GOT UP the next morning with a stiff neck, some kind of delayed reaction to the dip in Lake Superior. I waggled it, bombarded it under the shower head, took a couple of aspirins, and rubbed in some cream from a tube that smelled like Stillman’s Gym. After a cup of coffee and a radio weather report calling for unseasonably high temperatures I put on the blue summerweight and knotted a red silk tie that looked cool and nonabrasive to my freshly shaved throat. By then my neck had frozen up tighter than a fence post. Backing the Renault out of the garage was one for Torquemada.
My office mail was fanned out under the slot in the door with A. WALKER INVESTIGATIONS lettered on the glass. I read the envelopes on my way through the waiting room and dumped them into the wastebasket in the private office. I used the duster on the desk and telephone, called my service to tell them I was in the traces, then looked up a number in the metropolitan directory, and used the telephone again.
“Marianne Motors, executive offices.” One of those quality-controlled female voices.
“Alfred Hendriks, please.”
“One moment.”
I listened to eight bars of the Marianne Motors advertising jingle.
“Mr. Hendriks’ office.” This one had been inspected even more closely.
“May I speak to Mr. Hendriks?”
“Who is calling?”
“Amos Walker.”
“Hold, please.”
Second chorus.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hendriks is in a meeting. May I take a message?”
I said no and told her good-bye. I lit a cigarette and smoked half of it. Then I ran the gauntlet again. I knew the jingle by heart now.
“Mr. Hendriks’ office.”
I deepened my voice a notch. “This is Adolf Wentz, vice president in Investments at Stutch Petrochemicals. We’ve run into a hitch and I need to discuss it with Mr. Hendriks.”
“One moment, Mr. Wentz.”
The jingle was cut off in mid-lyric. “What sort of hitch?”
This was a man’s voice, smoothly blended, but not smoothly enough to overcome the wheatfields in it; a toned-down Henry Fonda. “Mr. Hendriks?”
“What sort of hitch, Mr. Wentz?”
“Sort of none,” I said. “Adolf Wentz was my algebra teacher in high school. Those German names cut through a lot. My name’s Walker. I own a pocket comb with STUTCH PETROCHEMICALS stamped on it, but that’s my only connection with the firm.”
“If this is some kind of sales gimmick I want the name of your employer.” There was no change in his tone. Those were the dangerous ones. Give me a
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