Angel Eyes by Loren D. Estleman

But then he seemed to remember the first part of his agency’s motto, and relaxed as suddenly as a guard dog upon hearing his master’s control word. That’s the way it would always work. Let him just entertain the thought of leaning on a reluctant source or acting upon a hunch or trading a small secret for a bigger one, and the credo “Courtesy, Efficiency, Confidentiality” would jerk him back like bait on a line.
    He said, “If you want me to go I’ll go. But I’ve got a proposition that may prove mutually beneficial if you care to listen.”
    “Oh, Christ,” I groaned. “Not another one.”
    “What?”
    “I’ve got packing to do. You won’t mind if I do it while you talk.”
    I went back, cut the engine and jerked out the keys, unlocked the front door, turned on the hall light, waved him inside and went back again to kill the headlamps. He was standing in the entranceway trying not to drip on the linoleum. I took his coat, climbed out of mine, and hung them with my hat in the hall closet. I slid the holstered Luger into a more comfortable position on my belt. That bothered him, that did; he almost broke his jaw yawning.
    Ditching my jacket and tie on the way to the kitchen, I offered him a drink but he said he was on duty. I said so was I and poured myself a slug from the bottle in the cupboard over the sink and brought it through the living room into the four-by-six bedroom while he tagged along. I tasted my drink, set it down on the nightstand, wrestled my scraped and battered suitcase out of the closet onto the bed, and opened it to let the bats out while I pulled out the top dresser drawer. He watched me from the doorway.
    “Going on vacation?”
    “Yeah.” I placed pajamas and a change of underwear inside the suitcase.
    “I’d say you’re going on the scout.”
    I was bent over the drawer pawing through the stuff there in search of a decent shirt. I stopped and turned to face him. He was leaning against the jamb, stroking the guttered paint with a fingertip. It fascinated him. “Spill it,” I said. “What are you holding?”
    “I followed you to Cass tonight.” He poked at the old nail holes where the original owner hung up his dozen kids when they got too frisky. “I was parked outside The Crescent when you came out and looked up and down the street like a Communist spy in a crummy old movie. It made me curious, so I hung around. A girl went in a few minutes later. Pretty soon the police showed up. When they came out and snatched the mike out of the scout car I flipped on my scanner and guess what I heard?”
    “The Pistons lost.”
    “You know what I heard.”
    I got my pack out of my shirt pocket and shook it. One left. I stuck it in the corner of my mouth and lit it and drew the smoke down deep. It tasted good. I felt good. I had his number. I said, “How much?”
    He looked up from the jamb and raised his eyebrows. Montana was right; every one of them spent his evenings in front of The Late Show taking notes. In three strides I was on him and glommed a double handful of his collar. I yanked him into the room and hurled him up against the wall hard enough to knock loose the pictures on the other side. I leaned into him. He wasn’t armed.
    “I’ve dealt with every kind of blackmailer and shakedown artist.” My cigarette bobbed in his face. “No, that’s not strictly true, because there’s only one kind. Get this straight. Even if I weren’t planning to turn myself in tomorrow I wouldn’t toss you a nickel. The longer you put off reporting me to the cops to make me sweat, the more trouble you’re in for not going to them sooner. That’s accessory after the fact. We’d both end up in the slam and the odds are it’ll be the same one, and that’s when I’ll get you.”
    He was scared. His jaw was slack and his eyebrows were trying to climb up into his hairline. He was young, not more than twenty-five. This was his first shakedown. He hadn’t planned it, just saw his