Pimp by Ken Bruen Page B

Added, “A moment of your time.”
    Could she refuse? Sure, but then what? Besides, she was curious.
    She muttered, “Okay,” and he led the way to, naturally, the coffee bar.
    Paula was definitely more curious than upset. Why was Miscali asking about Max Fisher? Fisher was officially on the Most Wanted list, but she hadn’t heard about any Fisher sightings in years.
    “Get yah?” Miscali asked.
    The future Pulitzer winner said, “A decaf frappe.”
    He almost sounded friendly, said, “Take a seat.”
    She did. Noticed a long-black-haired guy in the corner, rattling like a demon on his laptop and stopping periodically to laugh out loud then re-attack the keys with ferocity. Now that was the kind of guy she wanted to write with, not Stiegsson, whining about how it was too dark in Sweden to write, or whatever his complaint du jour was. Maybe when she got to book four in the series—she needed a good, snappy title for that one—she’d look this guy up.
    The cop was back, placed the coffees on the table with two wedges of carbo nightmare Danish. Like she could, and watch the shit go right to her hips? No way, Jose. Not when she was looking to get into talk shows.
    He said, “I shouldn’t,” then took a massive bite out of the Danish. “Oh….ugh…holy fuck, that’s good.” Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, said, “Okay, to business. Where’s Fisher?”
    “Why would you think I know where Fisher is?”
    “You wrote a book about him.”
    “
About
him. Why does that mean I know where he is? And he’s presumed dead, isn’t he? Is that what you are now, a ghost detective?”
    Unamused, he said, “Have you had any contact with him since the Attica riot and his escape or not?”
    She was astounded, said, “I’m astounded.”
    He wasn’t buying. “You were part of his…circle before all the smoke in Canada.”
    She composed herself, which meant she pushed her rack in his fat face, said, “I’m a writer, I write about lowlife, I don’t hang out with them. Well, aside from those Irish writers who come to mystery conferences, but you get my drift.”
    “Yeah? You got a big book out there. Looks like you got lucky, huh?”
    She was livid. Did Laura L. have to endure this kind of condescending attitude?
    She tried for haughty, went, “I’m working with a European writer now. Maybe you saw his name on the posters in the window. He’s upstairs right now, in fact.”
    “I’m not interested in the Swede, honey, I’m interested in you.”
    “Are you harassing me, Officer?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “
Honey?
”
    “Huh?”
    “You called me fucking honey.”
    “Jesus, it’s a figure of speech. It’s not like I called you a whore for fuck’s sake. Tell me, when exactly was the last time you spoke to Fisher?”
    She refused to answer this. She looked over at the long-haired guy. He was still banging on the keys, oblivious to the world. Her type of guy. If she were straight she would’ve been all over him.
    “I’ll ask you again,” he said through a mouthful of Danish. “When was the last time you saw him.”
    “At Attica,” Paula said.
    “I mean since then.”
    “I haven’t seen him since then. I thought he was dead like everybody else.”
    “He’s not dead.”
    “How do you know?”
    “A hunch.”
    “That’s how you investigate these days? On hunches?”
    “I’ll do my job and you do your job.”
    “I want to do my job. My job is to greet my fans.”
    “Some job.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I mean you get one lucky hit, you get some PR, and you think you wrote the next
Godfather
.”
    “I don’t think it,
honey
, I know it.”
    “Where the fuck is Fisher?”
    “Okay, I admit it, I know where he is.” Paula paused then said, “He’s hiding out in Pakistan. Maybe you should send Kathryn Bigelow to go get him.”
    The cop was standing, put his card on the table, said, “Fisher will show up, especially now that your book is out.” He’d said
book
with total