The place — a combo Laundromat and dry cleaner — looked less than sublime, and too dingy to launder anything except maybe money. The Asian woman behind the counter was about as friendly as a Manticore training officer. Shorter than Max, her black hair tied back in a severe bun, the woman had a raisin face with raisin eyes, and a mistrustful expression.
“Package for Vogelsang,” Max announced.
“I take.”
“I kinda don’t think you’re Daniel Vogelsang.”
“I take.”
“Mr. Vogelsang has to sign — it’s marked confidential, and only Mr. Vogelsang can sign for it.”
“I take.”
Max glanced at the ceiling, rolled her eyes, and thought the hell with it. “Look, if Mr. Vogelsang isn’t here, I’ll just have to come back another time.”
“I take.”
“You can’t take, you aren’t him and you can’t sign.” Max turned on her heels and headed for the door, the woman’s language of choice moving from English to Chinese, her vocabulary expanding considerably from the two words Max had previously heard.
Max had enough Chinese training to know that some of the names she was being called should earn the woman a chance to have her mouth washed out with soap, and even in this shithole laundry, soap wasn’t in short supply...
But Max was learning to choose her battles more wisely, these days — attracting attention in Seattle was not on the itinerary.
As she reached the door, a male voice behind her boomed: “Ahm Wei, what the hell’s going on out here?”
Max turned to see a heavyset man with blond crew-cut hair, mild features, and a goatee on a droopy-eyed bucket head, wearing baggy slacks and a Hawaiian slept-in shirt.
“She got package,” Ahm Wei said. “She no leave.”
“Ahm Wei, you know when they need my signature, you’re supposed to come get me... Young lady! Hold up there.”
Max sighed and swiveled. “You Vogelsang?”
“Could be.”
“You take?” Max mimicked, her patience growing thin, holding out the package. “If you’re Vogelsang, this package is marked confidential, which means it has to be signed for personally. No tickee, no laundry, get it?”
“Punk-ass mouth on you,” the guy muttered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m Vogelsang. Come on in back — I don’t do my business out here.”
Already tired of this rigmarole, but not wanting to have to deal with Normal about the rejected package, Max let out another world-weary sigh and followed Vogelsang through double doors into a cramped office. Max’s trained eyes automatically took it all in: washer parts, jugs of dry-cleaning chemicals, unidentified stacks of boxes, typical backroom stuff.
But centrally, in front of a wall of battered file cabinets stacked with more boxes and papers, a maple desk squatted, arrayed with piles of papers, the occasional Twinkie box, and empty Chinese takeout containers... a swivel chair behind the desk, a comfortable client’s chair opposite, beige walls adorned with bulletin boards bearing police circulars and such... what was this place?
Max handed the frumpy bear of a man the signature pad, he put on reading glasses and signed where he’d been told, and she asked, “What the hell do you do back here?”
“Private investigations.”
Her eyes widened a little. “You’re a detective, huh?... What kind of investigations?”
He handed her the clipboard, she handed him the package, wrapped in brown paper; it was a little smaller than a shoe box.
“You know, divorces, runaways, skip trace, stuff like that.” He finally tore his eyes from the package and looked up at her — in his business, even invisible people like messengers rated a once-over. “Why?”
“If I was looking for someone, you could find them.”
“I could try.”
Without an invitation, she eased into the chair opposite Vogelsang, hooked a leg over its arm. “So — what’s something like that cost?”
Vogelsang stroked his bearded chin, the package all but forgotten; tossed his glasses on the desk and took the chair back there. “Depends.”
“That’s a great answer.”
“Depends on who we’re looking for... and how much they don’t want to be found.”
A sour feeling blossomed in Max’s stomach. Already, she could see where this was heading: money. She’d been living the straight life since she and Original Cindy had landed in Seattle, hadn’t pulled a single score; and to tell the truth, she sort of liked it. But she had to find her sibs.
“All right, Mr. Vogelsang — give me an estimate.”
Big shoulders made a tiny shrug. “Thousand-dollar retainer against two hundred a day... plus expenses.”
She rolled her eyes. “You high? I’m a freakin’ bike messenger!”
He shrugged, putting the reading glasses back on, his attention returning to the package.
“This office isn’t exactly uptown,” Max pointed out. “How can you charge rates like that?”
“The uptown offices don’t have my downtown connections... The private eye game is a dirty one.”
“So you set up shop behind a laundry.”
He peered at her over the reading glasses. “Are we done here?”
“Okay, Mr. Vogelsang... let’s say I get you the money...”
He threw the glasses on the desk again. “You got that kind of cash?”
“I can get it.”
“Little girl like you.”
“Don’t pry into my business, Mr. Vogelsang.”
“I won’t.” He grinned at her; he was like a big naughty hound dog. “Unless somebody pays me to...”
“If they do, I’ll double whatever they give you. I’d be buying loyalty, as well as discretion.”
The detective was studying her, taking in her confident manner, her youth obviously troubling him.
She brushed by that, asking, “How long to get results?”
“This is a missing person?”
“Yes.”
“Without much information to go on?”
“If I had information, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”
Another tiny shrug from the big shoulders. “Searching for people is not an exact science, uh... what’s your name?”
“Max.”
“Just Max?”
“That a problem?”
“Not if you pay in cash.”
“Count on it.”
The private eye shrugged. “Could be a day, could be never. When your retainer is exhausted, we’ll talk. Decide if you’re throwing good money after bad. I’m not a thief, Max.”
She mulled that over for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “When can you start?”
He gave her another shrug. “When can you have the money?”
She gave him one back. “Tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”
With a nod, he said, “Which is exactly when I can start. Nice how that worked out.”
“Yeah — it’s all good.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I’ll be back with a grand. Fill you in then.”
Vogelsang smiled — a big teddy bear of a man who was not at all lovable. He touched his temple with a thick finger. “Got ya mentally penciled in.”
She went straight from Vogelsang’s to Crash, where Sketchy, Herbal, and Original Cindy had already commandeered a table and were on a second pitcher of beer.
An old brick warehouse not unlike Jam Pony, the place had been converted to a bar years ago, pre-Pulse. Round brick archways divided the three sections and video monitors, including a massive big screen, displayed footage of stock car races, dirt bike events, and skateboarding, all featuring the wild crashes that gave the bar its name.
Small tables fashioned from manhole covers were scattered around with four or five chairs haphazardly surrounding each. A jukebox cranking out metal-tinged rock hunkered against one wall, and through the nearest archway lay the pool and foosball tables. The entire wall behind the bar was a backlit Plexiglas sculpture of bicycle frames.