was a wimp. So, on a whim, I dialed U-N-H-I-T-C-H.”
“I always wondered what kind of clients he gets off those billboard ads.”
“I drive past David’s outdoor advertising every day on the way to the clinic. It works—what can I say? Have you seen my ads?”
Crow shook his head. Other than their brief meeting at Birdy’s, he’d never heard of Dr. Nelson Bellweather.
“I got the idea from David. Every Sunday. ‘Fed up with dieting? Dial F-A-T-G-O-N-E.’ You wouldn’t believe how many calls I get.”
A light came on. He’d seen the doctor’s ads after all. “You’re the one in the TV Week.”
“That’s me!” said the doctor. “West End Clinic—Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons.”
“You do nose jobs, silicone breasts, things like that?”
“We offer a full range of services. Tomorrow I’m seeing Mrs. Archer Pillsbury-Cargill. We’re going to take a little subcutaneous fat off her hips.”
Crow recalled the printed advertisements. “‘Liposuction our specialty’?”
“That’s right.” Bellweather pursed his lips. “In this business, it pays to specialize.”
Crow swallowed, then wished he hadn’t. Something tasted awful. Better he should have walked into another Amway meeting. How did these people find their way into his life? Were they attracted to him the way a cat is attracted to the one person in the room who hates cats?
The doctor was talking again.
“My brother Nate—you met Nate?”
“More or less.”
Bellweather gave him a quizzical look, then continued. “Nate stayed with me last night and this evening, but he has a regular job, and his wife hasn’t left him yet. That’s why I asked David to track you down, Joe. Did he tell you anything at all?”
“He told me you were looking for a bodyguard. Look, I don’t know what your situation is, and apparently you aren’t interested in telling me. I’m sorry if Dave gave you the wrong impression, but I really don’t think I’m the right person for this job. There are companies that specialize in this sort of thing—”
“I’m not interested in some tough-guy bodybuilder type, Joe. I saw you handle Ricky Murphy. That’s what I want.”
“I was drunk, and so was he.”
“Think how good you’ll be sober.”
“Let me give this one more try. Why do you think you need a bodyguard?”
Bellweather stood up and walked toward the fireplace. He looked up at the bison mount, straight into its flared nostrils. “You saw it. The Murphys. You heard Ricky threaten to kill me.”
Crow shook his head. “Ricky’s just a hothead. Besides, that was weeks ago. If Ricky was really trying to kill you, he’s had plenty of time to do it. Why do you all of a sudden think you need protection?”
“I’ve been gone. After he attacked me in that bar, there were phone calls. I decided to take a vacation. I’ve been staying with a friend in Costa Rica. I just got back the night before last.”
That explained the suntan. “What set him off that night?”
“I have no idea. And I thought, like you said, that whatever it was that caused him to go off on me like that, he’d have calmed down after six weeks, but I was wrong. Last night he made another attempt on my life,” Bellweather said. He added, “It was unsuccessful.”
VI
Now Ricky, he’s got a temper on him, and I got the brains, but the one you got to watch out for is my mom.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON MURPHY
CROW SAT IN THE moose-antler chair. After testing all the furniture, he had found it to be the most comfortable. Bellweather had retired an hour earlier, and the house was dead quiet. He stared dully at the rug, at the grizzly bear’s open mouth. Crow yawned. He could feel himself fading. Less than three hours since he’d walked into this job, and he was already bored comatose.
He was having trouble taking his new employer’s concerns seriously. True, he had seen Ricky attack the doctor at Birdy’s, but that was nearly two months ago. Bellweather claimed that
“I always wondered what kind of clients he gets off those billboard ads.”
“I drive past David’s outdoor advertising every day on the way to the clinic. It works—what can I say? Have you seen my ads?”
Crow shook his head. Other than their brief meeting at Birdy’s, he’d never heard of Dr. Nelson Bellweather.
“I got the idea from David. Every Sunday. ‘Fed up with dieting? Dial F-A-T-G-O-N-E.’ You wouldn’t believe how many calls I get.”
A light came on. He’d seen the doctor’s ads after all. “You’re the one in the TV Week.”
“That’s me!” said the doctor. “West End Clinic—Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons.”
“You do nose jobs, silicone breasts, things like that?”
“We offer a full range of services. Tomorrow I’m seeing Mrs. Archer Pillsbury-Cargill. We’re going to take a little subcutaneous fat off her hips.”
Crow recalled the printed advertisements. “‘Liposuction our specialty’?”
“That’s right.” Bellweather pursed his lips. “In this business, it pays to specialize.”
Crow swallowed, then wished he hadn’t. Something tasted awful. Better he should have walked into another Amway meeting. How did these people find their way into his life? Were they attracted to him the way a cat is attracted to the one person in the room who hates cats?
The doctor was talking again.
“My brother Nate—you met Nate?”
“More or less.”
Bellweather gave him a quizzical look, then continued. “Nate stayed with me last night and this evening, but he has a regular job, and his wife hasn’t left him yet. That’s why I asked David to track you down, Joe. Did he tell you anything at all?”
“He told me you were looking for a bodyguard. Look, I don’t know what your situation is, and apparently you aren’t interested in telling me. I’m sorry if Dave gave you the wrong impression, but I really don’t think I’m the right person for this job. There are companies that specialize in this sort of thing—”
“I’m not interested in some tough-guy bodybuilder type, Joe. I saw you handle Ricky Murphy. That’s what I want.”
“I was drunk, and so was he.”
“Think how good you’ll be sober.”
“Let me give this one more try. Why do you think you need a bodyguard?”
Bellweather stood up and walked toward the fireplace. He looked up at the bison mount, straight into its flared nostrils. “You saw it. The Murphys. You heard Ricky threaten to kill me.”
Crow shook his head. “Ricky’s just a hothead. Besides, that was weeks ago. If Ricky was really trying to kill you, he’s had plenty of time to do it. Why do you all of a sudden think you need protection?”
“I’ve been gone. After he attacked me in that bar, there were phone calls. I decided to take a vacation. I’ve been staying with a friend in Costa Rica. I just got back the night before last.”
That explained the suntan. “What set him off that night?”
“I have no idea. And I thought, like you said, that whatever it was that caused him to go off on me like that, he’d have calmed down after six weeks, but I was wrong. Last night he made another attempt on my life,” Bellweather said. He added, “It was unsuccessful.”
VI
Now Ricky, he’s got a temper on him, and I got the brains, but the one you got to watch out for is my mom.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON MURPHY
CROW SAT IN THE moose-antler chair. After testing all the furniture, he had found it to be the most comfortable. Bellweather had retired an hour earlier, and the house was dead quiet. He stared dully at the rug, at the grizzly bear’s open mouth. Crow yawned. He could feel himself fading. Less than three hours since he’d walked into this job, and he was already bored comatose.
He was having trouble taking his new employer’s concerns seriously. True, he had seen Ricky attack the doctor at Birdy’s, but that was nearly two months ago. Bellweather claimed that
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