Boldt by Ted Lewis Page B

I’m supposed to be doing.”
    â€œDetails?”
    â€œLike if he’s here yet, where he is, where he’s going to be. Christ, Pete, you know, details.”
    â€œI don’t know no details, Mr. Boldt,” Pete says. “Jesus, you know better than to ask me if I know any details.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” I tell him. “Just tell me this--- is he here already or not?”
    Pete shakes his head.
    â€œI don’t know. My source don’t know. All I know is, if he ain’t here already, then he’s going to be here inside of twenty- four hours.”
    I don’t say anything.
    â€œLook,” Pete says. “I can’t tell you anything else. I mean, you know what I mean.”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “But if he’s here or when he comes, he’s going to have to be somewhere. Now can you tell me that, Pete?”
    Pete shakes his head. “I’ve told you what I know,” he says. “There’s no more I can tell you.”
    â€œOkay,” I say to him. “That’s fine. You’ve been a great help, Pete. From this point on, I’ve got no more worries. Everything’s virtually sewn up. I’m going to get a promotion for this one and believe me, I’ll remember the part you played in the whole business. I really will. Now just run along and when I get my share of the reward, I’ll be in touch, okay?”
    Pete turns to look at me and opens his mouth but before he can speak, I say to him, “That’s all, Pete.”
    His mouth stays open so I reach across him and open the door on his side of the car.
    â€œThat’s the way out, Pete.”
    Pete’s mouth snaps shut then he shuffles along the seat and climbs out. He thinks about slamming the door then decides against it and closes it quietly, but what he does do is stick his head back in through the open window and he says, “You’re a bastard, Boldt,, and I want you to know this: if I ever hear there’s a contract out on you, then I’ll find out who’s going to carry it out, and I’ll tell them to take the day off and take the money, and I’ll do the job for them for free.”
    I nod my head. Pete stays the way he is for a moment or two more then jerks his head back through the window and walks off toward the bushes. I take out another cigarette and light it from the butt of the last one then throw the butt out of the window. There is a faint rustling of leaves behind me and I look in the mirror; Pete Foley has gone.

    The bar at the Chandler Hotel is altogether different at this time of the evening. The cocktail hour crowd is spilling into the pre-dinner crowd which is being augmented by the crowd that don’t bother about dinner at all. All the stools at the bar are occupied so I sit down in an empty booth and wait for Murdock to come down. I manage to grab a waiter who’s working very hard at trying to avoid catching anybody’s eye and I get him to bring me a vodka and while I’m waiting for that important event to happen, my attention is focused on the girl I had the brush with earlier in reception. My memory has done her no service because she’s even better than the picture I’ve been carrying in my mind.
    She’s wearing different clothes for one thing. Now she’s dressed all in cheesecloth, white—a white sleeveless top and a long white skirt. The material is almost thin enough to see her underwear through it, but not quite, and the effect it has is to keep you looking, just in case. Tonight she’s wearing her hair up, kind of Roman style, and that doesn’t do her any harm either because it shows off the grace of her long neck and although she’s too far away from me to smell her perfume, I know it’s going to smell fresh and innocent and at the same time be enough to have guys jumping out ten-story windows.
    While she’s looking around for some place to sit,