thirty-six, former
private investigator from Los Angeles, and the authorities there revoked my PI
license back in the spring of '01. I won't go into it here, but I'll just say I
went a little too far on this one job, and my hot temper got me into deep shit
once again. Turned out to be a pretty serious affair, so I felt I'd better
split town right way. Once I got to Las Vegas, I kept a low profile, realizing
California might well have a warrant out for me. So the last thing I need right
now is some cop taking my data and running it through the system.
Also, there was the matter of the envelope.
I hustled back to my car and fired it up. I drove
away, my eyes shifting between the road and the rear view mirror. No one,
except for the dead man, was on the street. I felt the envelope bulging inside
my shirt, and from the minute I first touched it, I had a pretty good idea of
what was inside. Patting it a couple of times, I headed directly home, without
exceeding the speed limit.
Once in the relative safety of my apartment, I
relaxed and poured myself a straight-up Dalmore. I took a quick sip.
Now, I have to say right here single-malt Scotch
is the only luxury I allow myself. My income has dropped off the cliff since
moving to Las Vegas, so I'm forced to live in a sparsely furnished, one-bedroom
apartment near downtown, but I make sure I have the good shit to drink.
After the second smooth sip, I sat on the sofa and
pulled the envelope out of my shirt. It was larger than your average
letter-type envelope and made of heavy paper stock. Two layers of mailing tape
across the seal kept its dense contents from bursting it open. Handwriting on
the outside: the initials "JBB". Printed in the upper left-hand
corner were the words "Blake Enterprises" overlaying a slick-looking
corporate logo.
I tore it open. A bundle of loose cash spilled out
onto my lap. Hundred-dollar bills, every one of them. Reflexively, I stole a
quick look around my empty apartment. There was nothing else in the envelope,
nothing to indicate what the money was for, or where it came from. Just the
initials on the outside.
I began counting. Ninety-five thousand dollars and
two Scotches later, my mind lurched forward, assessing questions about the dead
man in the street, the money, and the initials on the envelope.
You can bet your sweet ass I wanted to keep the
money. I mean, come on, the guy gave it to me, and I was under no obligation
whatever to pass it on to someone else. In addition, if he was run down
deliberately, the driver of the van didn't stop to get it himself, which means
he didn't know the guy was carrying that kind of cash. That meant he wouldn't
come after me for it, even if he knew who I was, which he didn't.
It all added up to ninety-five thousand in found
money. And make no mistake, I could use it. I'd been scraping along on whatever
I could squeeze out of the low-limit poker games downtown at Binion's, and
something like this would give me a lot of breathing room.
But, as the sun disappeared into night, the
questions stayed with me, like bad shrimp. Time for a few answers.
I went to my computer and googled Blake
Enterprises. Their website revealed they were a real estate outfit, operating
all over Nevada and elsewhere, with a headquarters address in the big Bank of
America building downtown. It looked as though they did mostly large commercial
projects, and their top dog was a guy named John Brendan Blake.
His photo, a head shot, showed him to be about
forty, with the faintest trace of gray attacking his full head of hair. His
eyes appeared to be bluish-green, while high cheekbones defined his face. He
was handsome, all right, but in the photo he tried for a smile that couldn't
quite get there. According to the website, he started the company from nothing.
I made a note of the address and phone number and
looked back at the money splayed all over my couch. God damn, I really could
have used it, but I'm cursed with what I call the honest
private investigator from Los Angeles, and the authorities there revoked my PI
license back in the spring of '01. I won't go into it here, but I'll just say I
went a little too far on this one job, and my hot temper got me into deep shit
once again. Turned out to be a pretty serious affair, so I felt I'd better
split town right way. Once I got to Las Vegas, I kept a low profile, realizing
California might well have a warrant out for me. So the last thing I need right
now is some cop taking my data and running it through the system.
Also, there was the matter of the envelope.
I hustled back to my car and fired it up. I drove
away, my eyes shifting between the road and the rear view mirror. No one,
except for the dead man, was on the street. I felt the envelope bulging inside
my shirt, and from the minute I first touched it, I had a pretty good idea of
what was inside. Patting it a couple of times, I headed directly home, without
exceeding the speed limit.
Once in the relative safety of my apartment, I
relaxed and poured myself a straight-up Dalmore. I took a quick sip.
Now, I have to say right here single-malt Scotch
is the only luxury I allow myself. My income has dropped off the cliff since
moving to Las Vegas, so I'm forced to live in a sparsely furnished, one-bedroom
apartment near downtown, but I make sure I have the good shit to drink.
After the second smooth sip, I sat on the sofa and
pulled the envelope out of my shirt. It was larger than your average
letter-type envelope and made of heavy paper stock. Two layers of mailing tape
across the seal kept its dense contents from bursting it open. Handwriting on
the outside: the initials "JBB". Printed in the upper left-hand
corner were the words "Blake Enterprises" overlaying a slick-looking
corporate logo.
I tore it open. A bundle of loose cash spilled out
onto my lap. Hundred-dollar bills, every one of them. Reflexively, I stole a
quick look around my empty apartment. There was nothing else in the envelope,
nothing to indicate what the money was for, or where it came from. Just the
initials on the outside.
I began counting. Ninety-five thousand dollars and
two Scotches later, my mind lurched forward, assessing questions about the dead
man in the street, the money, and the initials on the envelope.
You can bet your sweet ass I wanted to keep the
money. I mean, come on, the guy gave it to me, and I was under no obligation
whatever to pass it on to someone else. In addition, if he was run down
deliberately, the driver of the van didn't stop to get it himself, which means
he didn't know the guy was carrying that kind of cash. That meant he wouldn't
come after me for it, even if he knew who I was, which he didn't.
It all added up to ninety-five thousand in found
money. And make no mistake, I could use it. I'd been scraping along on whatever
I could squeeze out of the low-limit poker games downtown at Binion's, and
something like this would give me a lot of breathing room.
But, as the sun disappeared into night, the
questions stayed with me, like bad shrimp. Time for a few answers.
I went to my computer and googled Blake
Enterprises. Their website revealed they were a real estate outfit, operating
all over Nevada and elsewhere, with a headquarters address in the big Bank of
America building downtown. It looked as though they did mostly large commercial
projects, and their top dog was a guy named John Brendan Blake.
His photo, a head shot, showed him to be about
forty, with the faintest trace of gray attacking his full head of hair. His
eyes appeared to be bluish-green, while high cheekbones defined his face. He
was handsome, all right, but in the photo he tried for a smile that couldn't
quite get there. According to the website, he started the company from nothing.
I made a note of the address and phone number and
looked back at the money splayed all over my couch. God damn, I really could
have used it, but I'm cursed with what I call the honest
Similar Books
