back into bed. And it was tempting. But with all the folks in this world that counted on me, it didn’t seem as if I could do anything else but drag myself off to work.
Chapter 9
What I had told Marge about having people waiting for me was the truth, and it was almost eleven before I got in, giving my nine o’clock and ten o’clock appointments plenty of time to stew. As soon as they saw me arrive, they tore into me. Nine O’Clock complained that I had a hell of a lot of nerve, and Ten O’Clock agreed, insisting that the least I could do was give them both discounts.
It really was a lousy way to treat folks who might hire you, and I felt bad about it. I tried my best to calm them down, joking that they should pretend they’d been waiting to see a doctor. At least that way they could think of me as being early.
Nine O’Clock interrupted me. “I don’t see anything funny about being inconsiderate.”
“ No,” I tried explaining. “I don’t think it’s fun—”
“ You’ve got a lot to learn about manners,” Ten O’Clock piped in.
“ Well,” I said. “I’m sorry—” I heard the door to my anteroom open and turned to see my eleven o’clock appointment, Tom Morton, walking in.
“ Excuse me,” I muttered under my breath, and I greeted Morton at the door and showed him to my office.
That set off the fireworks. “I’ve been waiting two hours!” Nine O’Clock exploded, his face lit up with fury. “I demand you see me first!”
“ If you’d just be patient,” I said, “I’ll be right with you. This is an emergency—”
“ Go to hell!” He turned away from me. At the door, he warned me that the Better Business Bureau was going to hear about me. Then he damn near broke the glass in the door slamming it.
Ten O’Clock was mulling things over, but I guess she just had a longer fuse. “I’m going to talk to my congressman about you,” she said as she got up to leave. “People with your attitude shouldn’t be allowed to do business!”
It doesn’t do to have folks upset with you, but I couldn’t afford to keep Morton waiting. Morton was the attorney for Joel Ekleberg, and was looking for someone to carry out some investigative work for his client. I wanted the case and I wasn’t about to risk it for a couple of nickel and dime jobs.
For those of you who have been out of town or in a coma for the last six weeks, Joel Ekleberg is an investment banker currently being held for the strangulation murders of his wife and a female friend. What has made this such a whiz-bang deal in the papers is the gossip linking the late Mrs. Ekleberg to several state politicians. No matter how it resolves itself, it looks like quite a story, one the Examiner would be thankful to get.
I joined Morton in the office. Morton’s a square-jawed, smug little bastard. His old man bought him a law partnership when he was thirty-five and that only made him all the more smug. He asked what the commotion was about.
“ Just giving some folks a lesson on American business.”
“ Yeah, what’s that?”
“ The little guy gets screwed every time.”
He smirked at that, then took out a cigar, bit off the end and clamped it in his mouth. “If I hire you, you’re going to write this case up for your paper, right?” he asked, lighting the cigar with a solid gold lighter the shape of a Ferrari.
“ I’m planning to.”
“ You’ve got yourself a job, then.”
For the next ten minutes he gave me a rundown of the facts and a list of what he wanted me to do. When he was done, I asked him what he thought.
“ About what?”
“ Did your client do it?”
“ I dunno, maybe.” He scowled. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Just make sure you get my name spelled right. And work my phone number in, okay?”
We shook hands, and he reminded me again about getting his name spelled right. I made a mental note to forget the ‘t’ from his last name. Somehow it seemed more appropriate.
I would
Chapter 9
What I had told Marge about having people waiting for me was the truth, and it was almost eleven before I got in, giving my nine o’clock and ten o’clock appointments plenty of time to stew. As soon as they saw me arrive, they tore into me. Nine O’Clock complained that I had a hell of a lot of nerve, and Ten O’Clock agreed, insisting that the least I could do was give them both discounts.
It really was a lousy way to treat folks who might hire you, and I felt bad about it. I tried my best to calm them down, joking that they should pretend they’d been waiting to see a doctor. At least that way they could think of me as being early.
Nine O’Clock interrupted me. “I don’t see anything funny about being inconsiderate.”
“ No,” I tried explaining. “I don’t think it’s fun—”
“ You’ve got a lot to learn about manners,” Ten O’Clock piped in.
“ Well,” I said. “I’m sorry—” I heard the door to my anteroom open and turned to see my eleven o’clock appointment, Tom Morton, walking in.
“ Excuse me,” I muttered under my breath, and I greeted Morton at the door and showed him to my office.
That set off the fireworks. “I’ve been waiting two hours!” Nine O’Clock exploded, his face lit up with fury. “I demand you see me first!”
“ If you’d just be patient,” I said, “I’ll be right with you. This is an emergency—”
“ Go to hell!” He turned away from me. At the door, he warned me that the Better Business Bureau was going to hear about me. Then he damn near broke the glass in the door slamming it.
Ten O’Clock was mulling things over, but I guess she just had a longer fuse. “I’m going to talk to my congressman about you,” she said as she got up to leave. “People with your attitude shouldn’t be allowed to do business!”
It doesn’t do to have folks upset with you, but I couldn’t afford to keep Morton waiting. Morton was the attorney for Joel Ekleberg, and was looking for someone to carry out some investigative work for his client. I wanted the case and I wasn’t about to risk it for a couple of nickel and dime jobs.
For those of you who have been out of town or in a coma for the last six weeks, Joel Ekleberg is an investment banker currently being held for the strangulation murders of his wife and a female friend. What has made this such a whiz-bang deal in the papers is the gossip linking the late Mrs. Ekleberg to several state politicians. No matter how it resolves itself, it looks like quite a story, one the Examiner would be thankful to get.
I joined Morton in the office. Morton’s a square-jawed, smug little bastard. His old man bought him a law partnership when he was thirty-five and that only made him all the more smug. He asked what the commotion was about.
“ Just giving some folks a lesson on American business.”
“ Yeah, what’s that?”
“ The little guy gets screwed every time.”
He smirked at that, then took out a cigar, bit off the end and clamped it in his mouth. “If I hire you, you’re going to write this case up for your paper, right?” he asked, lighting the cigar with a solid gold lighter the shape of a Ferrari.
“ I’m planning to.”
“ You’ve got yourself a job, then.”
For the next ten minutes he gave me a rundown of the facts and a list of what he wanted me to do. When he was done, I asked him what he thought.
“ About what?”
“ Did your client do it?”
“ I dunno, maybe.” He scowled. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Just make sure you get my name spelled right. And work my phone number in, okay?”
We shook hands, and he reminded me again about getting his name spelled right. I made a mental note to forget the ‘t’ from his last name. Somehow it seemed more appropriate.
I would
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