on maybe I’ll make you a copy, send it off to your office. But right now I have a sneaking suspicion that this old file might prove to be more interesting than I first thought. You know, Carl, I suddenly am wondering whether this old file might link up to one of my open cases. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’re a hell of a detective, Detective.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Who is S.A. Telushkin?”
“I think he’s retired now, but I had some dealings with him early in my career when I was doing fraud. An interesting character. Easy to underestimate.”
“McDeiss.”
“His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Telushkin.”
“So what’s the S.A. part?”
“Special Agent,” said McDeiss.
“Aaaah.”
“Special Agent Jeffrey Telushkin of the FBI.”
Did you hear that? Did you? There it was, the kerthump of the other shoe dropping smack on my head.
Chapter
14
P HIL S KINK WAS a long walk off a dank pier. Phil Skink was as ugly as a Salisbury steak but his teeth were pearly. He smoked cigars that smelled like the New Jersey Turnpike. He bought his suits wholesale from a guy named Harry. His cholesterol level was a national tragedy. The sight of him on the beach with his shirt off was enough to stun a jellyfish. Phil Skink played golf in a straw hat and old wingtips, and on the city course he played once a week he would take your money, guaranteed. He would have been the world Jumble champion if there was any money in it. He could have starred in the Lon Chaney story without the makeup. He played the “Star-Spangled Banner” through the gap in his teeth. He was a bad enemy, a good friend, a free man. Just by looking at him you would never figure he was smarter than you, but he was, guaranteed.
I had met Skink when he was working the other side of a murder case, working the other side, that is, until we realized we had the very same intentions and so we started working together. He was a licensed PI, and every lawyer needs a PI, and so I hired him, when he was available, to PI for me. He was smart, like I said, and he was fast.
“She’s working for a company called Jacopo,” said Skink over the phone as Kimberly Blue, Vice President of External Affairs, satin a plastic chair set up in front of our secretary’s desk. “Some la-dida outfit what is renting a town house smack on the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square.”
“What do they do?”
“Everything and nothing.”
“Who owns it?”
“A couple of shell corporations I traced to the Caymans where the traces, they disappear.”
“You’re slipping, Skink.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am. You want to send me down there for a few days, I could maybe dig a little deeper.”
“And work on your tan in the process.”
“They gots golf courses down there look like brochures.”
“Forget it.”
“Thought to check with the rental agent on the town house. Tough bird, she is. Constant cigarette, voice like a lawn mower. Insisted on a personal guarantee on the lease, and got one too. Signed by a man of substance name of Edward Dean.”
“Edward Dean. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about our little Miss Blue.”
“Grew up in South Jersey, just over the bridge, Bellmawr. Father ran a liquor store. Cheerleader, no surprise there, right? Graduated this year from Penn. Didn’t have the grades or SATs for an Ivy, but slipped her way in and survived. Was a marketing major, seems that’s what they major in if they don’t know what the hell to major in. Found her current position on a bulletin board at the job office at the school. Lots applied, this bird pulled it down. Good for her, right?”
“How’d she get it?”
“No one knows. There was better-qualified applicants, top of the class, Wharton grads even. But she’s a looker, ain’t she. I had my choice between some little owl with a four-point-oh and our little Kimberly, I’d take Kimberly too. Now she’s living in a walk-up with some of her school chums but she ain’t
“I think you’re a hell of a detective, Detective.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Who is S.A. Telushkin?”
“I think he’s retired now, but I had some dealings with him early in my career when I was doing fraud. An interesting character. Easy to underestimate.”
“McDeiss.”
“His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Telushkin.”
“So what’s the S.A. part?”
“Special Agent,” said McDeiss.
“Aaaah.”
“Special Agent Jeffrey Telushkin of the FBI.”
Did you hear that? Did you? There it was, the kerthump of the other shoe dropping smack on my head.
Chapter
14
P HIL S KINK WAS a long walk off a dank pier. Phil Skink was as ugly as a Salisbury steak but his teeth were pearly. He smoked cigars that smelled like the New Jersey Turnpike. He bought his suits wholesale from a guy named Harry. His cholesterol level was a national tragedy. The sight of him on the beach with his shirt off was enough to stun a jellyfish. Phil Skink played golf in a straw hat and old wingtips, and on the city course he played once a week he would take your money, guaranteed. He would have been the world Jumble champion if there was any money in it. He could have starred in the Lon Chaney story without the makeup. He played the “Star-Spangled Banner” through the gap in his teeth. He was a bad enemy, a good friend, a free man. Just by looking at him you would never figure he was smarter than you, but he was, guaranteed.
I had met Skink when he was working the other side of a murder case, working the other side, that is, until we realized we had the very same intentions and so we started working together. He was a licensed PI, and every lawyer needs a PI, and so I hired him, when he was available, to PI for me. He was smart, like I said, and he was fast.
“She’s working for a company called Jacopo,” said Skink over the phone as Kimberly Blue, Vice President of External Affairs, satin a plastic chair set up in front of our secretary’s desk. “Some la-dida outfit what is renting a town house smack on the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square.”
“What do they do?”
“Everything and nothing.”
“Who owns it?”
“A couple of shell corporations I traced to the Caymans where the traces, they disappear.”
“You’re slipping, Skink.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am. You want to send me down there for a few days, I could maybe dig a little deeper.”
“And work on your tan in the process.”
“They gots golf courses down there look like brochures.”
“Forget it.”
“Thought to check with the rental agent on the town house. Tough bird, she is. Constant cigarette, voice like a lawn mower. Insisted on a personal guarantee on the lease, and got one too. Signed by a man of substance name of Edward Dean.”
“Edward Dean. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about our little Miss Blue.”
“Grew up in South Jersey, just over the bridge, Bellmawr. Father ran a liquor store. Cheerleader, no surprise there, right? Graduated this year from Penn. Didn’t have the grades or SATs for an Ivy, but slipped her way in and survived. Was a marketing major, seems that’s what they major in if they don’t know what the hell to major in. Found her current position on a bulletin board at the job office at the school. Lots applied, this bird pulled it down. Good for her, right?”
“How’d she get it?”
“No one knows. There was better-qualified applicants, top of the class, Wharton grads even. But she’s a looker, ain’t she. I had my choice between some little owl with a four-point-oh and our little Kimberly, I’d take Kimberly too. Now she’s living in a walk-up with some of her school chums but she ain’t
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