He relaxed. Okay. Louis Gorcey seemed like the real deal. He'd passed up a chance to go for a gun and his envelope contained the right stuff. The only thing that would remove the last suspicion was if he could see the guy's eyes. You can tell a lot from eyes. But he was keeping his shades on.
Richie shoved the envelope into his top drawer and gestured to the chair on the far side of his desk.
"Have a seat, Lou." When they both had their butts settled, he said, "What can I do for you?"
Gorcey pushed his newspaper across the desk. A copy of The Light, opened to page three. He jabbed at a photo of a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar—jabbed him right in the eye. Richie noticed that his finger was trembling. He also noticed that Gorcey was wearing nail polish. Clear nail polish, yeah, but still polish. These queers…
"Do you know who that is?" Gorcey said.
Richie did a quick read of the caption and reworded it.
"That's Luther Brady, isn't it? The head of that crazy Dormentalist Church?"
Maybe he shouldn't have called it crazy. This guy could be some sort of Dormentalist holy roller.
"Crazy?" Gorcey's manicured finger shook worse as his voice rose. "I wish that were the only thing wrong with the Dormentalist Church! It's worse than crazy! It's destructive and conniving and vicious and malicious and it's all this man's fault! He's… he's…"
He sputtered to a stop.
"He's what, Lou?"
Gorcey's hands flapped in the air. "He's a monster. He stole a small fortune from me, but worse than that, he stole years from my life. Years! I can always earn more money, I'm good at earning money, but how do I get back those years?"
"I don't know, Lou. You tell me."
Richie had found this to be the best approach with upset clients. Let them talk till they ran out of steam.
Gorcey slumped back in the chair. "It's impossible, of course." His brow furrowed. "But I can get even."
Again Richie wished he could see Gorcey's eyes.
"How do you plan to do that?*'
"With your help, I hope."
This was getting interesting. A faggot like this Louis Gorcey thinking he could get even with an international figure like Luther Brady. Richie had expected a deadly dull hour, but this was kind of fun. Like getting paid for being entertained.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I want to hire you."
"To do what?"
"Lee told me you're a wizard with a camera."
Richie fought the smile that wanted to bust out on his face. Dobbins said that, huh? Well, why not. Richie did know his way around a camera, and was good at low-light photography. Damn good. Just ask the cows he was milking.
He gave a little laugh and did the modesty thing. "Well, I don't know about the wizard part, but—"
"He told me all about how you caught his partner dead to rights, and I want you to do that for me. I want you to catch Luther Brady in the act."
"In what act?"
Gorcey's shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure. But I know he sneaks off every Sunday night and heads upstate into the hills. He lives at the temple on Lexington Avenue. Every other time he leaves the temple, on every other day of the week, he has a driver. But not on his Sunday night trips."
Richie smiled. "You've had him under surveillance, then."
"Well, yes. I've even followed him a few nights but I've lost him every time."
"Tailing should be left to a professional."
"That's why I've come to you."
"But what makes you think these trips involve anything wrong?"
"Because it's the only time he ventures out alone. That tells me he's up to something he doesn't want anyone to know about."
"Could be," Richie said. "Could also mean he just wants to be alone."
The hands fluttered again. "That's always a possibility, but with a man as ruthless as Luther Brady, I doubt it. And if he's involved in something that will not stand the light of day, I want pictures of it."
… will not stand the light of day… Was this guy for real? No, of course he wasn't. He was a queer.
"All right, Lou. Let's just say he is. And let's just say I do get pictures. What do you intend to do with them?" He shot up a hand in a stop gesture. "Don't tell me anything illegal, like blackmail. I can't be a party to blackmail. It's against the NYAPI code of ethics."
Gorcey blinked. "Ny-ya—?"
"The New York Association of Private Investigators."
Richie had joined NYAPI when he opened his office, paid dues for one year—just long enough to earn a membership certificate to hang on his wall—then tossed all further mailings into the circular file. But claiming to follow a professional organization's code of ethics never failed to impress prospective clients. It assured them that they were dealing with a man of principle.
Gorcey mumbled, "That's good to know…"
"If you're planning to use these photos—assuming there's something worth photographing—to expose this man as a fraud and a charlatan, then that's fine. That's performing a public service. But blackmail? No, count me out."
That was the speech, and convincing as usual. Should be. Richie had given it enough times.
"No… no, I'm not looking to blackmail him. I want to, as you say, expose him for the money-grubbing mountebank he really is."
Mountebank? What the hell was a mountebank? Some kind of a queer word or something?
Gorcey leaned forward. "Will you help me? Tonight?"
Richie thought about that. Yeah, he wanted the work, but he preferred not to rush things. He liked to max the billable hours. And he had a feeling it wouldn't hurt to play hard to get.
"Why's it got to be tonight? What's wrong with next Sunday?"
"Because I want him now." Gorcey was looking a little agitated, his sissy voice growing louder. "I don't want to allow him another whole week of defrauding people like me. I want to bring him down now. Do you hear me?" He slammed both fists on Richie's desk. "Now!"
Richie held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I get the picture."
This guy was really steamed. Richie fought back a smile. How'd that saying go? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Or something like that.
Gorcey leaned back. "Sorry. It's just… look, I'll pay you another two thousand just to follow him tonight and see what he's up to. Is that fair?"
Fair? For four, five hours work? Damn-fuck right it was fair. This must be one rich queer.
Richie had heard they tended to have bucks. No kids and all that…
He put his head back and rotated it a little to the left and a little to the right, trying to look like a man wrestling with a decision. He'd already made up his mind, but he wasn't ready to say yes. Who knew? If he stalled, maybe Gorcey would up the ante to three thousand.
The act worked. Gorcey piped up and said, "I'll add another thousand if you get pictures I can use."
You mean, Richie thought, photos you think you can use.
By all rights he should tell the dumb schmuck that catching Luther Brady meeting with a girlfriend or even a boyfriend wasn't going to put much of a dent in his reputation. Not these days.
Damn shame too. It made Richie long for the fifties. He'd been just a little kid at the time, but he remembered how uptight everyone had been back then. Those were the days when even a so-called breath of scandal could sink a career or a reputation. His sideline business would be so much easier and more profitable now if America hadn't changed. But it had. The new attitude was pretty much anything goes. Damn hard to shock people these days.
He sure as shit wasn't telling Gorcey that, though.
But if he did come up with something juicy—really juicy—he could always snap some extra shots—innocent ones—and tell Gorcey that all Brady did up there in the woods was sit alone and meditate.