“Hannibal?”
“Well yes, but I’ve never heard you call him anything else. He must have a nickname or something.”
“No, just Hannibal,” Cindy said.
“Wow. Doesn’t it make you think of that cannibal character in the movies?”
Hannibal collected the girls’ drinks from a smiling bartender and quickly handed them off. He tried to pretend that he and Cindy were the only people there, hoping her girlfriend would take the hint.
“Cindy, do you see any signs of that guy I wanted to meet this evening?”
“I haven’t seen Elliot yet, hon. But I do see the right crowd of pharmacists and techies.” She nodded to Gloria and gave her a sly wink. “Glory, we’re going to wander over in this direction and shake a few hands.”
“I got ya,” the blonde replied in conspiratorial tones. “Gotta network, gotta work the room. That’s what makes you the best, Cindy. I’ll catch you on the bounce back.”
Hannibal felt out of place walking around empty handed, so on their way across the polished marble floor he stopped at one of the many bar setups for a drink. Only women carried wine at these events, so he asked for an acceptable substitute.
“Scotch, rocks” he said to a large Black bartender. The man seemed to lean forward, as if his response was for their ears alone.
“Single malt or double, sir?” Hm. Regular or high test? Was the bartender trying to embarrass him, or school him?
“Oh, um, single malt?”
“Yes sir,” the bartender was pleased. “Laphroaig okay?”
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
“Very good sir,” The bartender poured with practiced ease and handed over the glass in such a way that Hannibal had to lean in to get it.
“Good stuff,” the waiter said. “Next time, ask for it by name.”
“Thanks, brother.”
Walking through the throng of political and business movers and shakers, Hannibal wondered how there could be any poverty in Washington. Charity balls were more popular than Wizards games, and the price of admission was obscene. But the little circle of men they sidled up to now seemed less well off than some they passed. These were rented tuxedos and Mall store shoes like he himself wore. He didn’t doubt their importance, but it seemed clear that these cocktail sippers actually worked for a living. Cindy seemed to consider the little circle before breaking in, singling out a particular balding, round-faced man and signaling with her chin that he was their quarry. Then she hovered innocently, waiting to catch the fellow’s eye. When he turned to her, she turned on the charm.
“Cindy Santiago,” the man said, raising his Manhattan toward her. “What a pleasure to see you this evening. Gentlemen, this is the young lady who helped me straighten out that awful patent office mess last year.”
The other men all seemed to know what a mess that was, and murmured their approval toward her. Then Cindy said, “Good to see you Elliot. I’d like you to meet Hannibal Jones, the fellow I told you about who solves other sorts of problems.”
Elliot’s mouth opened with his smile now, and he beamed at Hannibal the way he might at a professional athlete or perhaps a rock star. “Yes, the troubleshooter I’ve heard about. Well, what a life that must be. A good deal more exciting than branching nucleotides I’m quite sure.” The others all seemed to agree, and Elliot wasted no time in introduced Hannibal around the little circle.
“So you’re a real life P.I., eh?” a particularly thin fellow holding a pink drink said. “Sort of like Sam Spade. Get it?” Even without the emphasis on the last name, Hannibal managed to get it. He just didn’t manage to smile. Instead he sipped his Scotch, an act that improved his mood right away. It was smooth and far smokier than any he had tried before. He smiled at the skinny guy, which seemed to surprise everyone.
“You’re gracious, considering what a putz Franklin is being,” Elliot said. He had the small, delicate hands Hannibal associated with scientists for some reason.
“Hey, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve heard that,” Hannibal said. “And actually, the job’s not much like it looks in those movies.”
“From what I’ve heard, a private eye is just a professional tough guy,” another drinker threw in. “More like Shaft, right?”
Hannibal thought he was turning to Cindy, but she had wandered off and left him to deal with these gawkers alone. Not wanting to respond to the last remark, he looked up at Elliot, who seemed to sense his discomfort.
“No no. I’ll bet he’s more like Ellery Queen. You know, a thinking man’s detective.”
The last thing Hannibal wanted to discuss at a charity gala was his profession. While he was trying to think up a new subject to introduce, Franklin spoke up again.
“Well, what do you think, Jones? Which archetype detective are you?”
Hannibal closed his eyes and tipped his head back, emptying his glass before speaking. “Actually, I think I’m more like the illegitimate child of Spenser and Hawk. That is, if it was possible for them to, you know, do that kind of thing.” Then he pointed his head toward the nearest bartender. “As it happens, Elliot, I could use your help with a case I’m working on. Let’s refresh our drinks.”
They headed toward the bar but through further head signals Hannibal guided Elliot Gaye to the door and out into the hallway. Gaye took a deep breath as soon as the door hissed closed behind them.
“Sorry about the attack of the geek patrol. Every one of those fellows is a genius, but their social skills are somewhat lacking. I understand why you’d want to get away.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “That’s kind of harsh. I mean, I hated it, but they’re just curious kids, and I know I’ve made fun of their kind often enough.”
“Humph. I’ve got to admit you’re not what I expected at all,” Gaye said.
“And that wasn’t a dodge back there,” Hannibal said. “I really do need your help on a case.”
“Really?” Gaye began to wander down the hall, and Hannibal stayed at his side. Despite himself, he seemed to Hannibal to be one of the kids, in awe of real life. “How can I help?”
“Well, I’m involved in an investigation involving the death of Vernon Cooper. Do you remember him?”
“Vernon was in prison when he passed, right?” Gaye asked. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did he die under suspicious circumstances?”
Hannibal closed his eyes to keep them from rolling. “I think he may have been involved in something that turned out to be over his head. Did you ever hear of a valuable, er, treasure he had hidden for his daughter?”
“A treasure?” Gaye stopped and looked around the hallway while one set of pudgy fingers stroked his highest chin. “Remember when I told you every one of those guys back there is a genius? I meant that. But Vernon, he was above all of us. I know he was working on something special, but he kept his counsel, and people in our business, we tend to stay in our own lane.”
“Of course,” Hannibal said. “But is it possible some others might not have been as circumspect as you? What about this Hathaway character?”
Gaye looked down, as if trying to find his shoes. He bared his lower teeth, sinking his top chin into the rolls beneath it. Hannibal surmised that this was his “make a tough decision” face.
“Hathaway. He was a cowboy. Too wild for the pharmaceutical arts, if you ask me. Left the company rather suddenly. I think he may have stolen proprietary information, some of the results of some research he was working on.” Then he looked at Hannibal, as if a new idea had struck him. “This is just rumor, you understand. I haven’t seen any evidence of wrong doing or anything.”
“Relax, Elliot. May I call you Elliot?”
Gaye beamed. “Certainly, um, Hannibal.”
“In my profession, you never reveal your sources. So, just between you and me, is it possible that Cooper and Hathaway might have been mixed up in something together?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gaye said. “Cooper was a straight arrow from all I saw. But you might want to interrogate Hathaway. Could be a lead.”