Read Online The Doll Brokers by Hal Ross - Free Book Online Page B

he was grateful to get inside.
    â€œWhere to?” the driver asked.
    An Armenian or Arab, the man thought. He had absolutely no objection to the ethnic snarl of New York’s population. But the way most of them drove was another matter entirely.
    â€œTwenty-fifth and Broadway,” he said.
    Ann Lesage may not have been ready to give up on her doll, but under the circumstances she would almost certainly have returned early from Canada. He would head over to her office, where he hoped to catch a glimpse of her grim expression.
    The cabbie drove, the car hitching, swerving, brakes squealing on grinding stops and near misses. The man held on tight. As they pulled up to the address, fate smiled on him.
    A woman he recognized at once came through the lobby doors. She was a brunette of enticing proportions that he could just makeout beneath her open, flapping coat. Her stride was choppy in a way that told him she was angry. She drove her long hair back with one hand as she looked right then left, perhaps deciding in which direction she should go. He knew her name, knew her to be Patrick Morhardt’s secretary.
    Although they had clearly arrived at their destination, the man instructed the cab driver to keep the meter running.
    â€œBut you said Twenty-fifth Street,” the cabbie protested in broken English.
    He handed him two twenties. “You can keep the change if you just hang tight for a minute.”
    The driver shrugged and did as he was told.
    The man knew he had to make a decision. He could follow his intended plan, a rather indulgent one with no immediate consequences, and wait to see if Ann Lesage would show up, or he could make a change. His instincts told him that now that he had spotted Verna Sallinger, this was the more fortuitous path to take.
    Verna headed south on Broadway, and he bid the cabbie to follow. They didn’t have far to go. She crossed 23rd, strolled a few blocks before turning west and into a bar just past the corner.
    Ten minutes later he stepped inside the same bar—finding that it resembled a small Irish pub.
    Four patrons sat at the counter, a middle-aged couple, a man in his twenties, and Verna. Fortunately, the stools on either side of her were unoccupied.
    â€œMay I?” he asked, indicating the seat on her right.
    She picked up her drink, sipped, then put it down.
    He didn’t wait for her answer and introduced himself.
    â€œVincent?” she repeated, closing her eyes and leaning back in her seat with a small groan.
    â€œDid I say something wrong?”
    â€œI’d rather be alone, Vincent, if you don’t mind.”
    The man’s blood began to boil at the slight. But he kept his emotions in check. The germ of an idea was beginning to percolate—one that was too good to reject. So he swallowed his anger and inquired if it would be alright if he stayed for just one drink before going on his way.
    Even that didn’t seem to sit well with Verna, but she nodded her head as if she had no choice in the matter.
    Neither said a word until his drink—a Belvedere Martini—was served. Then he asked what was troubling her.
    â€œWho said I was troubled?”
    â€œI like to watch people. When you left your office, you were walking mad.”
    â€œYou saw me leave my office?”
    â€œYes. I knew who you were. You’ve been recommended to me, Ms. Salinger. I’m looking for a secretary and I heard you were a good one.”
    â€œI’m good and presently employed, thank you very much.”
    â€œBut I can make it worth your while.”
    He watched her mull over his comment. It always came down to money. He believed everyone had a price, no matter their self-esteem or determination.
    â€œSorry. Not interested.”
    The little bitch.
Not interested, my ass.
He heard her but pretended he hadn’t. He continued to drink in silence, focusing on the fulfillment of his idea, which was beginning to delight him. When he