goofball would be that crude and that stupid? Easy. Marshall Hutsell, rich goofball. Hutsell hired the muscle.
No need to work out how Hustsell knew what I was up to. A vision of George Labold idled into my mind. If George was their snoop hired to snoop on their hired snoop, it made me sad. To see a good agent fall so far.
If it was George.
I couldn’t lie here admiring my tire forever. I had to drag myself up, brush myself down, wince with pain—a kidney punch really hurt, deep down hurt—spit blood until I was sure when I smiled I wouldn’t frighten the horses.
I did think I’d smile again. But I didn’t know when.
The contents of the bar of the Grand Union Hotel called to me.
I had a look at my shoes, my pants, my jacket. If I could get through one of its grand doors without making a scene, I was sure to find a Gentleman’s toilet and could get all gorgeous again.
Chapter 20
The gents at the Grand Union wasn’t kidding. It was grand. A bunch of big mirrors in big frames, fancy washbasins and gold fixtures—even a row of marbled urinals. It had Louis the whatever chairs scattered about and real palms in real pots which someone really watered. It had brass spittoons and free cigarettes in a big black lacquer box and free cigars in a bigger red lacquer box. There were gold dragons on the boxes and a huge golden horse made of what looked like real gold racing across one maroon colored wall. It had an aging black man with his own lacquered cubicle who was there just to shine your shoes if they needed it. Mine needed it.
The gentleman’s attendant’s name was Thomas Clay Jefferson. He lived up to every inch of it. If there was a single soul cluttering up a single inch of the Grand Union who could truly be said to look like a gentleman, that soul was Thomas Clay Jefferson. He had a lot of grey in his short kinky hair and his hands would of looked good on Nat King Cole. I didn’t know about the voice. Not many, if any, could touch Cole’s voice. He wasn’t pretty. His left eye was what they called a lazy eye—sometimes it looked where the right eye was looking and sometimes it didn’t—but just the same, looking at him made me feel good. I told him to call me Sam. He said he’d call me sir but I could call him Clay. I told him I was a PI. I told him I was looking into the deaths of Saratoga’s three jockeys. And then, while he made me look better than I have ever looked, I found myself telling him my entire life story right up to the moment I walked into his gentleman’s lounge.
I never found a better listener. If I could of voted for him for President of these United States, I would of.
That’ll be the day.
“They didn’t touch your face much, sir,” he said, gently removing tar from my right hand.
“Not much you can do to a face like mine, Clay. So why the blood in my mouth?”
“You have a fine face. Reminds me of Robert Mitchum. Interior bleeding, sir. You might want to see a doctor.”
“And then again, I might not. Never had a good feeling about doctors.”
His right eye smiling directly into mine, his left doing whatever it wanted to, Clay grinned.
I said, “Not Humphrey Bogart? And before you can say it, I know Bogie’s not a doctor.”
I almost got a laugh.
“No, sorry, sir. Definitely Robert Mitchum.”
I was going to have to go see a Robert Mitchum film. After this job, I could probably afford the two bits for a movie ticket. If I lived through it. The job, not the movie.
There are some ways in which it pays to be beaten up. Whoever the thugs worked for, they were the cause of my introduction to Thomas Clay Jefferson. That alone was worth it. Clay not only listened, he talked. Whenever the classy gents was emptied out of those who might loosely be considered gents, he told me what I would never hear anywhere else. For one thing, the coroner was the brother of his wife’s
No need to work out how Hustsell knew what I was up to. A vision of George Labold idled into my mind. If George was their snoop hired to snoop on their hired snoop, it made me sad. To see a good agent fall so far.
If it was George.
I couldn’t lie here admiring my tire forever. I had to drag myself up, brush myself down, wince with pain—a kidney punch really hurt, deep down hurt—spit blood until I was sure when I smiled I wouldn’t frighten the horses.
I did think I’d smile again. But I didn’t know when.
The contents of the bar of the Grand Union Hotel called to me.
I had a look at my shoes, my pants, my jacket. If I could get through one of its grand doors without making a scene, I was sure to find a Gentleman’s toilet and could get all gorgeous again.
Chapter 20
The gents at the Grand Union wasn’t kidding. It was grand. A bunch of big mirrors in big frames, fancy washbasins and gold fixtures—even a row of marbled urinals. It had Louis the whatever chairs scattered about and real palms in real pots which someone really watered. It had brass spittoons and free cigarettes in a big black lacquer box and free cigars in a bigger red lacquer box. There were gold dragons on the boxes and a huge golden horse made of what looked like real gold racing across one maroon colored wall. It had an aging black man with his own lacquered cubicle who was there just to shine your shoes if they needed it. Mine needed it.
The gentleman’s attendant’s name was Thomas Clay Jefferson. He lived up to every inch of it. If there was a single soul cluttering up a single inch of the Grand Union who could truly be said to look like a gentleman, that soul was Thomas Clay Jefferson. He had a lot of grey in his short kinky hair and his hands would of looked good on Nat King Cole. I didn’t know about the voice. Not many, if any, could touch Cole’s voice. He wasn’t pretty. His left eye was what they called a lazy eye—sometimes it looked where the right eye was looking and sometimes it didn’t—but just the same, looking at him made me feel good. I told him to call me Sam. He said he’d call me sir but I could call him Clay. I told him I was a PI. I told him I was looking into the deaths of Saratoga’s three jockeys. And then, while he made me look better than I have ever looked, I found myself telling him my entire life story right up to the moment I walked into his gentleman’s lounge.
I never found a better listener. If I could of voted for him for President of these United States, I would of.
That’ll be the day.
“They didn’t touch your face much, sir,” he said, gently removing tar from my right hand.
“Not much you can do to a face like mine, Clay. So why the blood in my mouth?”
“You have a fine face. Reminds me of Robert Mitchum. Interior bleeding, sir. You might want to see a doctor.”
“And then again, I might not. Never had a good feeling about doctors.”
His right eye smiling directly into mine, his left doing whatever it wanted to, Clay grinned.
I said, “Not Humphrey Bogart? And before you can say it, I know Bogie’s not a doctor.”
I almost got a laugh.
“No, sorry, sir. Definitely Robert Mitchum.”
I was going to have to go see a Robert Mitchum film. After this job, I could probably afford the two bits for a movie ticket. If I lived through it. The job, not the movie.
There are some ways in which it pays to be beaten up. Whoever the thugs worked for, they were the cause of my introduction to Thomas Clay Jefferson. That alone was worth it. Clay not only listened, he talked. Whenever the classy gents was emptied out of those who might loosely be considered gents, he told me what I would never hear anywhere else. For one thing, the coroner was the brother of his wife’s
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