Murdering Americans by Ruth Edwards

retired to the waste ground and made a phone call.
    Inside the office, the baroness watched with interest as the man tossed his hat toward the hat stand: it fell to the ground. His coat, which he had aimed at the back of the armchair, disappeared out of sight. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I keep trying to improve my aim.’
    The baroness retrieved his hat, retreated to the door, and took aim. ‘Shit,’ she said, as it missed its target. ‘Dishonours are even.’
    The man grinned. ‘Cool,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘The moniker is Mike Robinson, ma’am.’
    The baroness shook his hand. ‘The moniker is Jack Troutbeck, Mr. Robinson.’
    He swept a pile of papers off the seat of the armchair and beckoned to her to sit. As he walked round his messy and shabby desk to a swivel chair that had seen better days, the baroness looked around the small office. The carpet was threadbare and the furnishings generally redolent of a thrift shop, but it was all surprisingly clean.
    ‘Does that neat desk in the corner suggest you don’t work alone?’
    Robinson lounged back and put his feet on the desk. ‘Yeah. That’s Velda’s. She’s my partner. Now on an assignment chasing a jerk who’s two-timing his broad. Should be back any time. You’d like her. She’s a babe. A babe to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.’
    ‘That’s a familiar line. Raymond Chandler?’
    ‘Got it in one.’ He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Want a Lucky? We’ll be living dangerously if the cops come, but hell, what’s life without the risk of having the cuffs slapped on?’
    The baroness was charmed. ‘What a good idea,’ she said and leaned forward and tugged a cigarette out of the packet. ‘I’m a pipe or cigar woman myself, but in the circumstances, a Lucky would be just fine. I’m in revolt against the health police, so on principle I’ll accept most things that are illegal and bad for me even if I don’t much like them.’
    Robinson shoved a small manual typewriter aside to make a space, opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle and a couple of plastic cups. ‘Nuts to the health police. What do you say to a finger of rye?’
    ‘I say yes, Goddammit.’
    He grinned. ‘I think we’re going to get on just fine, lady.’
    ***
    Aware that she had to be at Traci’s at six and had things to do, the baroness prudently stuck to one drink, and after half an hour got up to leave. ‘You’re clear about what you’re doing, Mike.’
    ‘Yeah, sure thing, Jack. You want stuff on that Gonzales asshole and you want it fast.’
    ‘That seems a fair summary. I’m sorry to have missed Velda.’
    ‘You should be. She’s one gorgeous dame.’
    ‘Sadly, I have to postpone this pleasure. Another dame—albeit less gorgeous—awaits me.’
    ***
    ‘Hey, I love your darling European accents,’ said Traci.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Constance.
    ‘What do you mean “European”?’ asked the baroness, but she said it sotto voce because she didn’t really want to hear the answer.
    ‘I guessed you must be homesick,’ said Traci, ‘so I thought I’d get right in there and show you a proper American welcome.’ She tossed her hair and gave a dazzling smile, her teeth so gleaming that the baroness thought for a wild moment she could see her reflection in them.
    ‘How very kind,’ said Constance.
    ‘It’s nothing. I’m such a feeling person, I just had to show you I’m here for you. I’m Traci Hunter Dickinson and I’m right here for you. Here. Let’s hug.’
    She threw herself on the baroness, who flinched, and then on Constance, who patted her on the back in an embarrassed way.
    ‘What I think is just because you’re high-powered gals don’t mean you don’t need to have fun. When you’re with all those egg-heads all day, a girlie-night can be just the thing. So, hey! Relax and enjoy yourselves.’
    Constance smiled wanly. The baroness said nothing. Having endured half an hour of Traci’s aggressive