thought at the time. He was
the reason I went into that line of work.
Unfortunately, I had a much shorter fuse than he
did. I didn't mind using a little force if I thought it would get the job done.
He wouldn't have liked it.
Lansdorf added a touch more cream to his coffee
and stirred it.
"Anyway, Jack, I read about your troubles in
the paper back in LA. Your name caught my eye, so I checked up and found out
you were in fact the grandson of Mike Barnett."
"And you want to do a TV special on my family
history?"
He sipped his coffee again, looking for
improvement. Bingo.
"Hardly." He reached over into the
inside pocket of his topcoat, then pulled out a rolled-up magazine. As he
unfurled it on the table, he said, "Are you familiar with this?"
It was a copy of Las Vegas Weekly . You
know, the kind of tabloid-sized publication covering the local scene with
irreverent writing and plenty of attitude. Every big city has one of these.
"Yes, I'm familiar with it," I replied.
"Not this latest issue, but I know the magazine. I like it." I picked
up on the greasy aroma of french fries as the waitress brought a couple of
meals to a nearby booth.
He opened the magazine to a marked page in the
back, splashed with lots of ads for escort services and the like.
"You see this?" He pointed to an ad with
a picture of a gorgeous young girl, seated with her legs spread out from a
skimpy thong. The headline read, "Blonde Massage / We Come To You",
with a phone number underneath.
He brought his lips together hard, then said,
"That's my daughter."
I looked at her. Her eyes brimmed with promise,
while her mouth formed a dark, pouty slit. Tousled blonde hair fell across her
forehead and down her back. What there was of a top strained to contain full
breasts. She didn't get that look by hanging around her family's department
stores.
I glimpsed Lansdorf. His eyes were momentarily
downcast from the embarrassment of the ad.
"What do want me to do?" I asked.
"Find her and —"
"Whoa, now. I probably won't be able to bring
her home, Mr Lansdorf. She doesn't look like she'd be too interested."
"I don't want you to bring her home. My wife
won't have her in the house. And she probably wouldn't come anyway." He
fidgeted in his seat and paused for a breath. "I— I just want to
know where she is and I want to know that she's all right. If she needs
anything. That's all. Just to know she's all right." Desperation crept
into his voice.
I sat silent for a moment. I could tell he needed
it. Looking back at the ad, something in the girl's face — in her eyes
— grabbed my attention. It held me for a few seconds. I don't know, maybe
… maybe it was nothing.
I turned back to Lansdorf and said, "What
more can you tell me about her? And start with her name."
He drank some more coffee.
"Emily. Emily Jean Lansdorf. She left home
three — almost four years ago now. She came here and started waitressing,
then soon moved into the strip joints. She took up with a string of men —
I never knew any of them. We lost touch with her altogether around eight months
ago."
"Do you have any idea where she lives?"
"No, but she used to have an apartment over
off Maryland Parkway. It's her last address I know of. Here, let me give it to
you." He pulled out a pen and scribbled it on a paper napkin. I slipped it
into my pants pocket.
"Do
you know any of her known associates? Friends? Lovers?"
"No." His head bowed a little. "I'm
afraid not."
"How old is she?"
"She turned twenty-three back in
September."
The waitress refilled his coffee cup. He pushed it
aside.
I said, "One more thing. Why me? Why not a
licensed PI? He could find her just as easily as I could. Maybe easier."
His head slowly raised back up so his eyes were
level with mine. They were steely now, like his voice.
"I want someone who isn't afraid to cross the
line when necessary. And if she's in any kind of danger, then it will be
necessary." He leaned toward me just a little, adding, "You
the reason I went into that line of work.
Unfortunately, I had a much shorter fuse than he
did. I didn't mind using a little force if I thought it would get the job done.
He wouldn't have liked it.
Lansdorf added a touch more cream to his coffee
and stirred it.
"Anyway, Jack, I read about your troubles in
the paper back in LA. Your name caught my eye, so I checked up and found out
you were in fact the grandson of Mike Barnett."
"And you want to do a TV special on my family
history?"
He sipped his coffee again, looking for
improvement. Bingo.
"Hardly." He reached over into the
inside pocket of his topcoat, then pulled out a rolled-up magazine. As he
unfurled it on the table, he said, "Are you familiar with this?"
It was a copy of Las Vegas Weekly . You
know, the kind of tabloid-sized publication covering the local scene with
irreverent writing and plenty of attitude. Every big city has one of these.
"Yes, I'm familiar with it," I replied.
"Not this latest issue, but I know the magazine. I like it." I picked
up on the greasy aroma of french fries as the waitress brought a couple of
meals to a nearby booth.
He opened the magazine to a marked page in the
back, splashed with lots of ads for escort services and the like.
"You see this?" He pointed to an ad with
a picture of a gorgeous young girl, seated with her legs spread out from a
skimpy thong. The headline read, "Blonde Massage / We Come To You",
with a phone number underneath.
He brought his lips together hard, then said,
"That's my daughter."
I looked at her. Her eyes brimmed with promise,
while her mouth formed a dark, pouty slit. Tousled blonde hair fell across her
forehead and down her back. What there was of a top strained to contain full
breasts. She didn't get that look by hanging around her family's department
stores.
I glimpsed Lansdorf. His eyes were momentarily
downcast from the embarrassment of the ad.
"What do want me to do?" I asked.
"Find her and —"
"Whoa, now. I probably won't be able to bring
her home, Mr Lansdorf. She doesn't look like she'd be too interested."
"I don't want you to bring her home. My wife
won't have her in the house. And she probably wouldn't come anyway." He
fidgeted in his seat and paused for a breath. "I— I just want to
know where she is and I want to know that she's all right. If she needs
anything. That's all. Just to know she's all right." Desperation crept
into his voice.
I sat silent for a moment. I could tell he needed
it. Looking back at the ad, something in the girl's face — in her eyes
— grabbed my attention. It held me for a few seconds. I don't know, maybe
… maybe it was nothing.
I turned back to Lansdorf and said, "What
more can you tell me about her? And start with her name."
He drank some more coffee.
"Emily. Emily Jean Lansdorf. She left home
three — almost four years ago now. She came here and started waitressing,
then soon moved into the strip joints. She took up with a string of men —
I never knew any of them. We lost touch with her altogether around eight months
ago."
"Do you have any idea where she lives?"
"No, but she used to have an apartment over
off Maryland Parkway. It's her last address I know of. Here, let me give it to
you." He pulled out a pen and scribbled it on a paper napkin. I slipped it
into my pants pocket.
"Do
you know any of her known associates? Friends? Lovers?"
"No." His head bowed a little. "I'm
afraid not."
"How old is she?"
"She turned twenty-three back in
September."
The waitress refilled his coffee cup. He pushed it
aside.
I said, "One more thing. Why me? Why not a
licensed PI? He could find her just as easily as I could. Maybe easier."
His head slowly raised back up so his eyes were
level with mine. They were steely now, like his voice.
"I want someone who isn't afraid to cross the
line when necessary. And if she's in any kind of danger, then it will be
necessary." He leaned toward me just a little, adding, "You
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