“I sense a scheme rising. What are you proposing, Victor?”
“I want a piece of the pie,” I said.
“Of whatever I recover?”
“That’s right.”
“Of my own money?”
“Exactly.”
“Go to hell.”
“I was thinking the bank.”
“It is impossible.”
“It is only fair.”
“It is not fair, it is robbery. But if what you want is your normal fee, paid on an hourly basis, then-”
“I wasn’t thinking of an hourly fee. This is a collection case, pure and simple, and lawyers in collection cases usually get a third.”
“Because they are greedy bastards.”
“That’s my club.”
“A dangerous club to belong to.”
“But prosperous.”
“As long as you live. But I might be able to see myself clear to giving you five percent.”
“Now you are insulting me.”
“That is absolutely my intention. And just so I am clear, you are ugly as well as greedy.”
“Give me a quarter and we’ll call it a deal.”
“Ten percent.”
“Not enough.”
“Twelve point five, then, and that is my final offer. Only if you find him first, and only from what I actually recover from the bastard.”
“Forget it. I’d rather snooze at the shore.”
“I could have Sandro kill you, painfully.”
I heard the sound of a switchblade opening in the front seat. Swish-click.
“Twelve point five it is,” I said cheerfully.
“So we are agreed. Good.”
The car pulled up to an intersection and stopped. “Is this all right, Mr. Trocek?” said Sandro.
“Perfect,” said Gregor. “Good hunting, Victor.”
I opened the door and started to slide out when he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.
“My patience is not limitless,” said Gregor Trocek. “I have pressing business back in Iberia. Her name is Aitana, and she is a vision of youth. But for how long, no one knows. So know this, Victor. In exchange for your percentage, I am taking back promise of speedy delivery. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“For sin’s sake, Victor, let’s both hope you do better than that.”
I slid out of the car, slammed the door behind me, watched as the Jaguar slid away down the street, did the calculation even as the car slipped from my view. Twelve point five percent of one point seven mil. Something over two hundred thousand dollars. Enough for my own Jaguar after all. Sweet.
And I knew exactly where to start looking.
When the car finally disappeared, I scanned the location where I was dropped off. It was the same intersection where Sandro had picked me up. The bank where I had been shanghaied was across the street. I turned around, and there was Derek, still searching the sky as if seeking out those IRS cameras on the light poles.
“Hey, Derek.”
He stopped looking and turned his attention to me. “Took your sweet time, bo.”
“Did you happen to notice, with your brilliant detecting skills, what happened to me across the street?”
“Trouble with the ATM?”
“Not exactly. You see, I was kidnapped at knifepoint, forced into a strange automobile, taken on a drive through the city, all the while being threatened with bodily harm from a Cadizian assassin and his blood-soaked switchblade.”
“Word?”
“Yes, Derek,” I said. “Word. And all the time you were standing here, across the street, you saw nothing.”
“Not nothing. I think I spotted one of them cameras right up there.”
“You’ve certainly got eagle eyes.”
“So let’s get to it. You got my money?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, “but first I have to catch a weasel.”
26
The offices of Swift & Son were on Pine Street, just west of Broad, occupying the ground floor of an old stone apartment building. The name of the firm was printed in ornate gold leaf on the wide plate-glass window. The gold leaf was in varying states of peel.
“This a beat little outpost,” said Derek, standing beside me. I had come right over from the bank, and Derek, still waiting for his money, had followed.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I said.
“What should I do in the meantime, bo?”
“Wait out here,” I said as I peered through the window. The outer office looked like it was straight out of a Hopper painting, bare and dusty, with a few old chairs scattered across the worn wooden floor. On a side table, a single magazine sat forlornly. Radiators were uncovered, the walls were a faded pale blue, a vintage ashtray stand was set beside one of the chairs.
When I stepped through the wooden door, a little bell rang.
“Can I help you?” said an older woman behind a counter so high that only the top half of the woman’s head appeared. From what I could gather, her hair had once been red.
“I’m looking for Clarence Swift,” I said.
“Which one, Clarence Swift the Elder or the Younger?”
I thought about it for a second. “Clarence Swift the lawyer.”
“That would be the Younger, which is good for you, sir, since Clarence Swift the Elder passed away five years ago.”
“Lucky me.”
Just then the little bell atop the door rang again. The woman and I turned our heads at the same moment. Derek.
“You mind if I sit?” he said. “My dogs are barking.”
“Just stay quiet, Derek,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
Derek looked around, took a disapproving sniff, and then dropped into one of the chairs. He picked up the magazine on the side table, looked at it quizzically, then showed it to me. “Who’s that?” he said, pointing to the man on the cover with a shock of dark hair gelled perfectly in place.
“Reagan,” I said.
“Who?”
I turned back to the woman, whose gaze remained on Derek. “Is Clarence Swift the Younger in?”
“Mr. Swift is quite busy at the moment. Maybe I can help you? Is this about an overdue rent?”
“No, ma’am.”
“A problem with a property?”
“Not that either.”
“You are looking for insurance, then.”
“No.”
“Hey, lady,” said Derek. “You got anything more recent than 1987?”
“No,” she said.
“No Maxims or nothing?”
“Maalox?”
“What say?”
“There’s a drugstore on the corner.” She turned her attention to me. “Are you sure you gentlemen are in the right place?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Would you tell Mr. Swift that Victor Carl is here to see him?”
There was a moment when the eyes peering above the counter appeared to fill with terror, as if I were the ghost of Clarence Swift the Elder come back to enact some terrible revenge, before they calmed again.
“Just a moment, please, Mr. Carl,” she said, “and I’ll see if he is available.”
The woman stood, eyed me warily as she straightened her print dress, and then made her way from behind the counter to the door leading to the back office. She was taller than I expected, big-boned and sharp-faced, long past fifty but with a rigidity to her posture that made her an altogether formidable presence. And somehow she seemed vaguely familiar, as if somewhere before I had seen the form from which she had been cast. She opened the door, eyed me again, closed it behind her.
From inside the back office, I could make out a scene of riotous anxiety. The exact words were muffled by the heavy door, but there was a high-pitched shout, a loud reply in a lower pitch, the scraping of furniture, the banging shut of file drawers, more shouts in the two different keys.
Derek raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.
When the door finally opened, the secretary once again appeared, smoothing straight her dress, patting her hair.
“Mr. Carl,” she said. “Mr. Swift will see you now.”
She held the door open for me and stared me down as I passed on through. She kept the door open as she returned to her spot at the counter.