had no
idea who he was, but I knew he couldn't be LAPD. They never looked that good.
I peeked at my holecards and at the upcards of the
other players. I had no shot in this hand. As I tossed my cards in toward the
dealer, I rose from the table and made my way to the entrance, eyeing him all
the way and thinking about what he could possibly want.
I found my best smile as he held out a hand.
"Jack Barnett?" he said.
"With two t's," I replied, feeling his
strong grip. This close, he appeared to be very fit beneath his sharp topcoat.
"Jack, I'm Robert Lansdorf. Could I speak
with you a moment?"
I looked back at the game. They'd started a new
hand. I didn't like to miss hands.
"Well … what's this about, Mr Lansdorf?"
He was the kind of guy you would call
"Mister", maybe twenty years older than I was, around fifty-five or
so, and not quite what you would call handsome. His hair was dove-gray and
well-styled. He looked like he might've had a Mercedes out in the valet parking.
Maybe with a chauffeur leaning against it, smoking a cigarette, freezing his
ass off in the January night, waiting for him to return.
He modulated his voice downward to a near-whisper.
"I want to hire your services as a private investigator."
A quick shot of surprise lifted my eyebrows for a
second. How did this guy know I was a PI?
I shook my head. "Can't help you, Mr
Lansdorf. I'm out of that business."
A cocktail waitress slinked between us with an
"excuse me" and a trayful of drinks, while somewhere in the distance,
a slot machine rang and rang, announcing a big payoff.
"Please." He motioned for me to walk
with him a few steps out of the poker room. When we got away from everyone, he
said, "I know about your troubles in Los Angeles. That's why I've come
here to see you."
Process server, I thought. I stiffened.
He caught it. As he patted my shoulder, he
said, "No, no, don't worry, I'm not
here to bring you trouble."
I started thinking that any guy in a camel hair
topcoat who tells me he's not here to bring trouble is probably the definition
of trouble. The very last thing I needed right then was somebody from LA who
knows who I am, knows I was a PI. The way I figured it, I had to bury that part
of my past, bury it deep, if I wanted to stay out of jail.
Then he added, "The fact you've lost your
license is the very reason I want to hire you."
"It is?"
"Indeed it is. Now, does five thousand
dollars get your attention?"
Five grand! Jesus! I hoped he didn't see my eyes
widen.
"You got it," I replied.
"Good. Let's go have a cup of coffee."
2
DOWN in the coffee shop, we took a corner booth, away from probing eyes. As he
removed his topcoat, I noticed his suit. It was dark and expensive.
Back when I had my license and things were going
good for me, I liked fine clothes, and I can tell when someone is
well-tailored.
The waitress brought our order. He sipped at his
coffee. I could tell he wasn't sure if he liked it.
"First of all, Jack," he said, "let
me tell you a little about myself. I live in Los Angeles, but like you, I'm
originally from New York. My father started what became a chain of department
stores there and had a lot of success. He later expanded to California, but
while still in New York, he did a lot of business with your grandfather."
That one hit me from my blind side. My jaw dropped
just a little as he continued. "That's right, Jack. My father did business
with Mike Barnett, one of the greatest-ever private investigators of New York.
Had his heyday in the forties and fifties. Always worked alone. As honest and
reliable as any man who ever wore shoe leather."
I'd always tried to pattern myself after my
granddad, early on, anyway. Even though he died before I really got to know
him, he was a legend around our house when I was growing up. My parents kept
all these scrapbooks filled with yellowing accounts of his exploits, saving New
York from one criminal conspiracy or another, or so I
idea who he was, but I knew he couldn't be LAPD. They never looked that good.
I peeked at my holecards and at the upcards of the
other players. I had no shot in this hand. As I tossed my cards in toward the
dealer, I rose from the table and made my way to the entrance, eyeing him all
the way and thinking about what he could possibly want.
I found my best smile as he held out a hand.
"Jack Barnett?" he said.
"With two t's," I replied, feeling his
strong grip. This close, he appeared to be very fit beneath his sharp topcoat.
"Jack, I'm Robert Lansdorf. Could I speak
with you a moment?"
I looked back at the game. They'd started a new
hand. I didn't like to miss hands.
"Well … what's this about, Mr Lansdorf?"
He was the kind of guy you would call
"Mister", maybe twenty years older than I was, around fifty-five or
so, and not quite what you would call handsome. His hair was dove-gray and
well-styled. He looked like he might've had a Mercedes out in the valet parking.
Maybe with a chauffeur leaning against it, smoking a cigarette, freezing his
ass off in the January night, waiting for him to return.
He modulated his voice downward to a near-whisper.
"I want to hire your services as a private investigator."
A quick shot of surprise lifted my eyebrows for a
second. How did this guy know I was a PI?
I shook my head. "Can't help you, Mr
Lansdorf. I'm out of that business."
A cocktail waitress slinked between us with an
"excuse me" and a trayful of drinks, while somewhere in the distance,
a slot machine rang and rang, announcing a big payoff.
"Please." He motioned for me to walk
with him a few steps out of the poker room. When we got away from everyone, he
said, "I know about your troubles in Los Angeles. That's why I've come
here to see you."
Process server, I thought. I stiffened.
He caught it. As he patted my shoulder, he
said, "No, no, don't worry, I'm not
here to bring you trouble."
I started thinking that any guy in a camel hair
topcoat who tells me he's not here to bring trouble is probably the definition
of trouble. The very last thing I needed right then was somebody from LA who
knows who I am, knows I was a PI. The way I figured it, I had to bury that part
of my past, bury it deep, if I wanted to stay out of jail.
Then he added, "The fact you've lost your
license is the very reason I want to hire you."
"It is?"
"Indeed it is. Now, does five thousand
dollars get your attention?"
Five grand! Jesus! I hoped he didn't see my eyes
widen.
"You got it," I replied.
"Good. Let's go have a cup of coffee."
2
DOWN in the coffee shop, we took a corner booth, away from probing eyes. As he
removed his topcoat, I noticed his suit. It was dark and expensive.
Back when I had my license and things were going
good for me, I liked fine clothes, and I can tell when someone is
well-tailored.
The waitress brought our order. He sipped at his
coffee. I could tell he wasn't sure if he liked it.
"First of all, Jack," he said, "let
me tell you a little about myself. I live in Los Angeles, but like you, I'm
originally from New York. My father started what became a chain of department
stores there and had a lot of success. He later expanded to California, but
while still in New York, he did a lot of business with your grandfather."
That one hit me from my blind side. My jaw dropped
just a little as he continued. "That's right, Jack. My father did business
with Mike Barnett, one of the greatest-ever private investigators of New York.
Had his heyday in the forties and fifties. Always worked alone. As honest and
reliable as any man who ever wore shoe leather."
I'd always tried to pattern myself after my
granddad, early on, anyway. Even though he died before I really got to know
him, he was a legend around our house when I was growing up. My parents kept
all these scrapbooks filled with yellowing accounts of his exploits, saving New
York from one criminal conspiracy or another, or so I
Similar Books
