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Authors: Ross Thomas
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Thirty-fourth Street, away from the body of Jimmy Peskoe. But I didn’t have any trouble recognizing them. The man was Miles Wiedstein. The woman was Janet Whistler.
8
T WO HOURS LATER JANET Whistler didn’t smile or nod when I came into the Adelphi’s lobby and walked over to where she sat in a brown club chair. She wore a long belted coat of dark-green leather and the same pantsuit that she had worn earlier in the day. She was smoking a cigarette and as I approached she snuffed it out with the air of someone who has smoked too many of them while waiting too long.
“I think we should talk,” she said.
“My place or the bar? They’re both private.”
She hesitated just long enough for me to decide that a proper upbringing could still do occasional battle with the liberation movement. “The bar,” she said.
It wasn’t difficult to find a table because they were all empty. We chose one near the door and when Sid came over from behind the bar she ordered a bourbon and soda. I asked for a Scotch and water that I didn’t particularly want or need.
“Where’s Wiedstein?” I asked after we had tasted our drinks.
“He’s picking me up here later.”
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“Working with Procane.”
“I like it.”
“That doesn’t tell me what it’s like.”
She started unbuttoning her leather coat and then shrugged out of it before I could help. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever done before,” she said. “But then I haven’t done much.”
“College?”
“Three years.”
“You want me to guess?”
“Don’t bother. It was Holyoke.”
“Then what?”
“I drifted. A little modeling, mostly in Paris; some acting out on the Coast and here.”
“How did you hook up with Procane, answer an ad?”
“Procane’s analyst recommended me. I was seeing him, but not professionally. He told Procane that I had all the attributes of a cunning thief. We met, talked it over, and that’s how it happened.”
“What’s Procane’s problem?”
“Does he have to have one just because he’s seeing an analyst? That’s a terribly old-fashioned attitude.”
“I’ve been told that I’m rather out of touch.”
“Didn’t you ever feel the need just to talk to someone? A person like Procane might feel that. Or perhaps he’s just afraid of heights. Don’t you have some secret doubts or fears that you’d like to talk to someone about?”
“Probably,” I said. “Most people do.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean you’re crackers, even if you do wake up some mornings and wonder why you’re doing what you do, which I think is really a silly sort of a business.”
“The hours are good,” I said.
“Is it that or are you afraid that you couldn’t hack it anymore at what you used to do? You wrote a column, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And now you’re doing something that’s just a little shady, something that has just a bit of a smell to it.”
“Some people think it’s glamorous.”
“But what do you think?”
“That its demands are just about right for someone without too much ambition.”
“Like you?” she said.
“Like me,” I said and smiled to show that I wasn’t taking any of it very seriously.
She swallowed some more of her drink and said, “Someday we’ll have to talk about what made you run out of ambition.”
“All right. Someday we will. But you wanted to talk about something else. What?”
“Jimmy Peskoe,” she said and then watched me carefully.
“What about him?” I said.
“You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s dead.”
“So?”
“We think he’s the one who stole Procane’s journals.”
“We?”
“Miles and I.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Miles found someone Peskoe was trying to sell the journals to.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “That’s not important. He’s reliable. He says Peskoe was willing to sell them for ten thousand dollars.”
“But he didn’t
8
T WO HOURS LATER JANET Whistler didn’t smile or nod when I came into the Adelphi’s lobby and walked over to where she sat in a brown club chair. She wore a long belted coat of dark-green leather and the same pantsuit that she had worn earlier in the day. She was smoking a cigarette and as I approached she snuffed it out with the air of someone who has smoked too many of them while waiting too long.
“I think we should talk,” she said.
“My place or the bar? They’re both private.”
She hesitated just long enough for me to decide that a proper upbringing could still do occasional battle with the liberation movement. “The bar,” she said.
It wasn’t difficult to find a table because they were all empty. We chose one near the door and when Sid came over from behind the bar she ordered a bourbon and soda. I asked for a Scotch and water that I didn’t particularly want or need.
“Where’s Wiedstein?” I asked after we had tasted our drinks.
“He’s picking me up here later.”
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“Working with Procane.”
“I like it.”
“That doesn’t tell me what it’s like.”
She started unbuttoning her leather coat and then shrugged out of it before I could help. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever done before,” she said. “But then I haven’t done much.”
“College?”
“Three years.”
“You want me to guess?”
“Don’t bother. It was Holyoke.”
“Then what?”
“I drifted. A little modeling, mostly in Paris; some acting out on the Coast and here.”
“How did you hook up with Procane, answer an ad?”
“Procane’s analyst recommended me. I was seeing him, but not professionally. He told Procane that I had all the attributes of a cunning thief. We met, talked it over, and that’s how it happened.”
“What’s Procane’s problem?”
“Does he have to have one just because he’s seeing an analyst? That’s a terribly old-fashioned attitude.”
“I’ve been told that I’m rather out of touch.”
“Didn’t you ever feel the need just to talk to someone? A person like Procane might feel that. Or perhaps he’s just afraid of heights. Don’t you have some secret doubts or fears that you’d like to talk to someone about?”
“Probably,” I said. “Most people do.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean you’re crackers, even if you do wake up some mornings and wonder why you’re doing what you do, which I think is really a silly sort of a business.”
“The hours are good,” I said.
“Is it that or are you afraid that you couldn’t hack it anymore at what you used to do? You wrote a column, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And now you’re doing something that’s just a little shady, something that has just a bit of a smell to it.”
“Some people think it’s glamorous.”
“But what do you think?”
“That its demands are just about right for someone without too much ambition.”
“Like you?” she said.
“Like me,” I said and smiled to show that I wasn’t taking any of it very seriously.
She swallowed some more of her drink and said, “Someday we’ll have to talk about what made you run out of ambition.”
“All right. Someday we will. But you wanted to talk about something else. What?”
“Jimmy Peskoe,” she said and then watched me carefully.
“What about him?” I said.
“You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s dead.”
“So?”
“We think he’s the one who stole Procane’s journals.”
“We?”
“Miles and I.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Miles found someone Peskoe was trying to sell the journals to.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “That’s not important. He’s reliable. He says Peskoe was willing to sell them for ten thousand dollars.”
“But he didn’t
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