Authors: William Lashner
“We always appreciate help.”
“And I wouldn’t mind asking that same party some questions so long as you don’t think it will hinder your investigation.” I was just about to close the Tommy Greeley file and stuff it in my briefcase when something stopped me.
“What’s this right here?” I said, pointing to a small yellow slip fastened in between two longer sheets of paper.
McDeiss shoved his glasses back onto his face, brought the file close. “It says the active investigation was closed after the initial inquiries and a discussion with…with S.A. Telushkin, and then it gives a phone number.”
“Who is S.A. Telushkin?” I said.
“I didn’t notice this before.”
“Who is he?”
McDeiss took off his glasses, pursed his lips. “Remember when I said you could have the file?”
“Yes.”
“I was mistaken.” He shut the file, jammed it into his briefcase, and grinned at me. “Believe it or not, I might want to look at it again. In fact, I might want to reopen a decades-old missing persons case. Would you have a problem with that?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“No.”
“Then I’ve no problem, no problem at all.”
“Good,” said McDeiss. “Later on maybe I’ll make you a copy, send it off to your office. But right now I have a sneaking suspicion that this old file might prove to be more interesting than I first thought. You know, Carl, I suddenly am wondering whether this old file might link up to one of my open cases. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’re a hell of a detective, Detective.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Who is S.A. Telushkin?”
“I think he’s retired now, but I had some dealings with him early in my career when I was doing fraud. An interesting character. Easy to underestimate.”
“McDeiss.”
“His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Telushkin.”
“So what’s the S.A. part?”
“Special Agent,” said McDeiss.
“Aaaah.”
“Special Agent Jeffrey Telushkin of the FBI.”
Did you hear that? Did you? There it was, the kerthump of the other shoe dropping smack on my head.
P
HIL
S
KINK WAS
a long walk off a dank pier. Phil Skink was as ugly as a Salisbury steak but his teeth were pearly. He smoked cigars that smelled like the New Jersey Turnpike. He bought his suits wholesale from a guy named Harry. His cholesterol level was a national tragedy. The sight of him on the beach with his shirt off was enough to stun a jellyfish. Phil Skink played golf in a straw hat and old wingtips, and on the city course he played once a week he would take your money, guaranteed. He would have been the world Jumble champion if there was any money in it. He could have starred in the Lon Chaney story without the makeup. He played the “Star-Spangled Banner” through the gap in his teeth. He was a bad enemy, a good friend, a free man. Just by looking at him you would never figure he was smarter than you, but he was, guaranteed.
I had met Skink when he was working the other side of a murder case, working the other side, that is, until we realized we had the very same intentions and so we started working together. He was a licensed PI, and every lawyer needs a PI, and so I hired him, when he was available, to PI for me. He was smart, like I said, and he was fast.
“She’s working for a company called Jacopo,” said Skink over the phone as Kimberly Blue, Vice President of External Affairs, sat
in a plastic chair set up in front of our secretary’s desk. “Some la-dida outfit what is renting a town house smack on the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square.”
“What do they do?”
“Everything and nothing.”
“Who owns it?”
“A couple of shell corporations I traced to the Caymans where the traces, they disappear.”
“You’re slipping, Skink.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am. You want to send me down there for a few days, I could maybe dig a little deeper.”
“And work on your tan in the process.”
“They gots golf courses down there look like brochures.”
“Forget it.”
“Thought to check with the rental agent on the town house. Tough bird, she is. Constant cigarette, voice like a lawn mower. Insisted on a personal guarantee on the lease, and got one too. Signed by a man of substance name of Edward Dean.”
“Edward Dean. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about our little Miss Blue.”
“Grew up in South Jersey, just over the bridge, Bellmawr. Father ran a liquor store. Cheerleader, no surprise there, right? Graduated this year from Penn. Didn’t have the grades or SATs for an Ivy, but slipped her way in and survived. Was a marketing major, seems that’s what they major in if they don’t know what the hell to major in. Found her current position on a bulletin board at the job office at the school. Lots applied, this bird pulled it down. Good for her, right?”
“How’d she get it?”
“No one knows. There was better-qualified applicants, top of the class, Wharton grads even. But she’s a looker, ain’t she. I had my choice between some little owl with a four-point-oh and our little Kimberly, I’d take Kimberly too. Now she’s living in a walk-up with some of her school chums but she ain’t there much, if you catch the drift. No steady boyfriend since she broke up with a basketball star last year, least not what her flat mates know of.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s an orphan.”
“What?”
“She’s an orphan. Her moms died when she was still in diapers, her pops died last year. And every now and then, ever since her pops died, she just goes off and cries.”
“Come on, Phil. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I thought you should know, is all.”
“You like her.”
“I been keeping my distance like you wanted, never spoke to her once.”
“But you’re sweet on her all the same.”
“Yeah, maybe I am. But not in the way you’re thinking. I spent some time with her mates. Nice girls, though two beers and they can’t stop their yapping. But Kimberly, she was working that night, like she works almost every night. Like she worked her way through a college that was too hard for her, like she worked her way into this job that ain’t like any job a girl like her should grab hold of. You get a sense of a girl giving her the tail. Our Kimberly, she’s been in over her head every day of her life and she keeps going on, doesn’t she?”
“Except when she’s home crying.”
“There you go. Anything else you want?”
“Not just yet, Phil. But keep your phone on, I sense I’m going to need you sooner rather than later.”
Today Kimberly Blue was wearing a different version of her corporate outfit, this one bright red, with matching pumps and lipstick. Very nice. She smiled when she saw me, but I gestured her to wait for a moment.
Rashard Porter was standing behind my secretary, Ellie, as she typed out his application to the Philadelphia College of Art.
“How’s it going?” I said.
Ellie looked up, seemingly exasperated. “He keeps changing his answers.”
“They got more questions than the probation lady,” said Rashard. “I mean my address and high school stuff is no problem, but like this here. They want to know why I want to go to art school. Should I tell them the truth, Mr. Carl? I don’t think they want to hear the truth, being that the truth is me liking the idea of
spending the day staring at naked ladies and needing to get in to keep my butt out of jail.”
“Except that’s not the real truth, is it?”
“It isn’t?”
“If you could do anything with your life, what would you do?”
“Blow dope and play X-Box?”
“Really?”
“Nah, man.”
“So then tell them what you really want to do. And tell them why. Tell them about the newspaper thing you did at the high school. From what I understand, with these places the most important thing is your portfolio.”
“Mine’s like a piece-of-crap cardboard thing.”
“Not what it’s made of, Rashard, what’s inside of it. I’ve seen your stuff. You’ll do all right. Just be sure to show them your best. Keep at it, but I have a meeting.”
With that I nodded at Kimberly Blue and led her into my office.
S
HE DROPPED INTO
a chair, pulled at the hem of her skirt, straightened the fabric on her lap, removed the stenographic pad from her leather portfolio. We chatted a bit, about the weather, about the city, about law school. She had been thinking about law school, she said, before she got a job as a vice president. “Now, being a lawyer would be a step down, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “So, where were we?”
She glanced at her pad. “You want me to start the whole thing over again, beginning with the card? Have you seen my card?”
“Yes I have. It’s quality, for sure.”
“It is, isn’t it? Did you notice that the printing is raised?”
“Yes, I noticed. Why don’t we begin where we left off in the courthouse. You said you had a case for me.”
“Yes, yes, okay. Okay. Here it is.” She calmed herself, looked at her pad, and then punched her fist in the air like a peewee soccer coach exhorting her troops. “Victor, we need for you, Victor, to collect a debt.”
“Collect a debt?” I said.
“Yes. A debt.”
“That may be a problem, then, Kimberly, because I don’t do collection work anymore.”
She looked at her tablet, riffled through it quickly. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Last collection case I ended up with a bullet in my ribs.”
“Oogly,” she said. “Did it hurt?”
“Oh yes.”
“Why would someone want to shoot you?”
“Well, Kimberly, take away a man’s money, he gets upset. Take away a man’s wife, he gets down right pissy. But take away a man’s car, then you’ve got trouble on your hands.”
“Still, someone has to do this case and we figured you were just the man for the job.” She gave me another exhorting punch.
“What is that, that fist in the air thing you do?” I said.
“You don’t like that?”
“No. It’s something they do to old men before they wheel them off to get their prostates removed.”
“Helloo. TMI. Can we avoid the prostate metaphors? I don’t even want to think about mine. So okay, my bad, no more of the fist thing.” She did it again. “But let me show you what we have.” She reached into her portfolio, pulled out a legal-sized document, handed it to me with great care like it was the Magna Carta itself.
A note, executed by one Derek Manley, promising to pay the First Philadelphia Bank and Trust one hundred thousand dollars, plus interest, plus collection fees, plus court costs if required.
“Is this the Derek Manley who owns the trucking company down by the stadium?”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation, and most of it bad, by the way. But this debt is owed to First Philadelphia.”
“Mr. Manley has already…What’s the word for failing to pay?”
“Defaulted.”
“No, that’s not it. Whatever, my boss bought the note and now wants you to collect it.” She gave me a frozen smile before reaching again into her portfolio. “Here is the transfer document.”
I looked it over. It was dated about a week ago. A firm named Jacopo Financing had bought the note at a steep discount, which probably wasn’t steep enough, considering Manley had already failed to make a number of payments and was probably flat-on-his-back broke. The note allowed the holder to confess judgment without
filing a legal case in the event of a default, which meant the only issue facing Jacopo was finding Derek Manley’s assets and seizing them.
“It looks pretty straightforward, but like I said, I don’t do collections anymore.”
“I have the retainer thing you said you needed.”
“It doesn’t make a difference.”
“Is there a magic word or something I need to say?”
“No.”
“How about please? Please take the case.”
“No.”
“Please, please, please.”
“Well, Kimberly, in that case…no.”
She stared at me for a moment, something welling in her eyes. “What about Joseph Parma?”
“What about him?”
“I thought he was your client.”
“He was.”
“And you’re just going to sit there and do nothing?”
“I don’t understand. Are Joseph’s murder and this collection case somehow related?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“You just did.”
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did, Kimberly. And if you want anything from me, you are going to have to tell me who you are working for, why he cares one whit about Joseph Parma, and how all of that is related to this Derek Manley. Whatever game is being played is no longer amusing. Tell me what I need to know or go home.”
She looked at me for a long moment and her jaw trembled, just a bit, but still it trembled, and her eyes glistened, and I remembered what Skink had said about her. I felt like a cad. And then, like a faucet was turned on, the water started running.
“I am in so much trouble,” she said, after the tissues had been brought in and the fluids had been wiped away. “I am so dead. And it’s not just you. I’m the vice president in charge of external relations and external relations are a total poodle. The caterer got the
order wrong and brought in salmon saté when my boss is, like, deathly allergic to fish, and he thought it was chicken and his head swelled so much it almost exploded. Then the carpet cleaner used a chemical that had my boss breaking out in hives and scratching like he was a dog with fleas. And now he gives me one more simple thing to do, hire you to collect a simple debt for a ten-thousand-dollar retainer, and you won’t take the case.”
“How much was that retainer?”
She just waved her hand as if it didn’t matter, as if the amount wasn’t even worth discussing in the midst of her failures.
“You have to tell me more, Kimberly,” I said.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said, glancing up to track my reaction.
“You have to tell me more about the case.”
“I can’t. He didn’t tell me anything more. I am so fired. I’m going to be, like, the vice president of external relations at McDonald’s. Can we super-size that for you? Oh God. For this I could have gone to a party school.”
“Maybe I can help, but you need to help me too. Let’s start with this. I know you work for a man named Eddie Dean.”
“Huh? How did you—”
“So the question is, does Mr. Dean speak with a British accent?”
She stared at me for a moment. “No. Why would he? Helloo. He’s from California.” Her hand slammed into her mouth. “But don’t let him know that I told you or—”
“What is the relation between Mr. Dean and Joey Parma?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But it’s something that happened a long time ago, I got that.”
“Is it about a suitcase?”
“No. That’s ridiculous. What would luggage have to do with anything?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I never heard anything about luggage.”
“Okay, one final question. What does Derek Manley have to do with any of this?”
“He called him.”
“Who did?”
“Mr. Parma. He called him. Derek Manley. Mr. Parma called him right before he called you.”
“And Mr. Dean got hold of the phone records and found this out.”
“Yes.”
“And bought this note from First Pennsylvania.”
“Yes.”
“Now I understand,” I said. And I did, understand. I understood exactly why Eddie Dean had bought Derek Manley’s debt and why Eddie Dean’s vice president of external affairs had brought that debt to me and why Kimberly Blue had broken down to great effect in front of me all so that I would take this little collection case that was not so little and not so much about a collection after all. I didn’t know yet the why behind all the whys, but I knew what Eddie Dean wanted from me and I was ready, now, to give it to him.
“All right, Kimberly,” I said. “I’ll take that check.”
“Does that mean?”
“Just hand it over.”
“Oh, Victor, Victor, I am soo…soo…”
“Kimberly, let’s play like the shampoo, all right? No more tears. You don’t need them anymore, they did their job already. Just give me the check and wait here for a moment.”
A check for ten thousand dollars, from the account of Jacopo Financing, signed by Kimberly Blue, made out to Derringer and Carl. Ten thousand dollars. I held it in both hands as I soberly left my office, closed the door, and then skipped like a bunny over to Beth.
“Will this do?” I said to her after I dropped the precious little paper on her desk.
She picked it up, examined it closely, let an expression of wonderment lift her features. “How’d we get this?”
“A retainer. For a collection case.”
“We don’t do collections anymore.”
“I made an exception. It has something to do with Joey. We’ll both be working on it, doubling up the billables.”
“Are you sure?”
“If you and I, with a steady effort, can’t blow out this retainer
before the first of the month, then we ought just give up law and become orthodontists.”
“How very nineties of you, Victor.”
“Why don’t you take this to the bank and then pay Ellie and Skink and the landlord. And if there is still something left over, maybe I can pay the cable bill. I miss my ESPN. This is just the start, Beth. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I?”
When I returned to my office, my expression was suitably somber, the tone of my voice was suitably businesslike. “All right, Miss Blue. We have decided to accept Jacopo’s representation.”
“Oh, Victor, thank you. I am so relieved.”
“Yes, I’m sure that you are. Tell your boss that I am on the case. I’ll confess judgment right away, just like the note provides, and I’ll set up an expedited deposition of Mr. Manley and I’ll have him in here within the week and I’ll ask him all I need to ask him. Tell your boss I am on the case and I will take care of everything.”