When Stenhauser turned off Second Avenue onto Fifty-sixth, Sloan crossed the street and picked up his pace. He passed Stenhauser, waited until the short man neared Bill’s, and entered it a few seconds ahead of him, killing time until Stenhauser had hung up his coat and found a place at the bar. Sloan sat down next to him. Stenhauser ignored him, reading a copy of Art World while the bartender concocted a perfect martini. He put it in front of Stenhauser, then turned to Sloan. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘A light draft,’ Sloan said. He looked over at Stenhauser. ‘You prefer Bombay gin over Beefeater’s, I see,’ he said for starters.
Stenhauser, staring at him from under his heavy lids, appeared somewhat annoyed. ‘It’s the bartender’s option,’ he said in a nasal voice that was almost a whine. ‘Frankly, I doubt that I could tell the difference between the two.’
‘But you do prefer a rather wet martini.’
‘Let’s just say I don’t like straight gin,’ Stenhauser said absently while leafing through his magazine.
‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’re interested in art,’ Sloan persisted.
Stenhauser tapped the magazine cover with a nervous finger.
‘Business and pleasure,’ he said curtly.
‘No kidding,’ Sloan said. ‘What’s your line?’
‘My line, if you want to call it that, is insurance.’
‘Life insurance, corporate —‘
‘Actually I’m a claims adjuster,’ Stenhauser said, turning his attention back to the magazine
‘No kidding,’ Sloan said enthusiastically. ‘How does that tie in with the art world?’
The little man placed the magazine back on the bar and sighed. ‘I’m a specialist,’ he said. ‘I specialize in recovering stolen art works.’
‘Hey, that sounds interesting. And profitable, right?’ He winked at Stenhauser.
‘Well, I’m not ready to retire yet, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Not yet,’ Sloan said, taking a sip of beer and not looking at him.
Stenhauser’s eyes narrowed. The man was beginning to annoy him. It was almost as if he were prying. Stenhauser studied him. His face was weathered and leathery, he had a small scar under his right eye, his body was square, like a box, and muscular. His charcoal-black hair was clipped in a severe crew cut, and his sport coat seemed almost too tight. An outdoor man, Stenhauser figured. A hunter rather than a fisherman. He had the burly look of a hunter; fishermen were more aesthetic. Probably did weight- lifting every day. A big sport fan and a beer drinker. Not too bright, thought Stenhauser.
‘And what’s your business, Mr. uh . . .‘ Stenhauser began.
‘Sloan. Harry Sloan. I’m a snoop.’
‘A detective?’
‘No, just a snoop,’ Sloan said, drawing him in, slowly weaving a shimmery web for his fly.
Stenhauser chuckled. ‘That’s good. That’s very funny,’ he said. ‘That’s what gossip magazines are all about, right? I suppose we’re all a bit nosy.’
Sloan leaned over toward Stenhauser and said, very confidentially, ‘Yeah, but nothing like I am. I stop’ — he held two fingers a quarter of an inch apart — ‘about that far short of voyeurism.’
Stenhauser looked surprised. ‘Well most people wouldn’t admit it,’ he said, taking another sip of his martini.
‘I like to study people,’ said Sloan. ‘I feel I’m a very good judge of character.’
‘Is that right.’
‘Take you, for instance. I’ll bet you’re a very precise man.’
‘Precise, huh.’ Stenhauser thought about that for a few moments. ‘I suppose that’s true. It pays to be precise in my business.’
‘I’m sure it does. Can’t afford a slipup.’ Sloan leaned closer to him. ‘Do you deal with the criminal element?’ he asked, adding more sheen to the well,.
‘That’s what I do,’ the little man said proudly. ‘I realise I don’t look very imposing, but I speak their language. I can be very tough when need be.’
‘I can tell,’ Sloan said.
‘You can, huh?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll bet you’re one helluva negotiator.’ It was Sloan’s oldest trick, working the mark’s vanity. It never failed.
Stenhauser somewhat arrogantly wiggled his head back and forth a couple of times but did not comment. He’s hooked, Sloan thought.
‘I do a little writing,’ Sloan said. ‘I’d like to talk about some of your cases, the tough ones. 1kight be something in it for me.’
‘Uh, well, I, that’s very flattering but, uh, most of my work is highly confidential.’
‘I don’t mean real names. Just, you know, some inside stuff. The more you know, the more authentic the work is.’
‘I suppose so. Well, perhaps some other time. I have to leave in a few minutes.’
‘Look, why don’t we just talk on the way up to Seventy-fourth Street,’ Sloan said, smiling as he sipped his beer.
Stenhauser stared at him with surprise for a fraction of a second. ‘How did you. . . I’m not going home,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve got tickets for the theater.’
‘That’s a shame. Your dog’s gonna bust a kidney.’ Stenhauser leaned over close to Sloan, and said between clenched teeth, ‘What the hell are you up to, anyway?’
‘Hatcher.’
‘Hatcher?’
Sloan nodded. ‘Hatcher.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
‘Christian Hatcher, Mr. Stenhauser. I just want him, that’s all. An address, a phone number. I’ll vanish from your life like that.’ He snapped his fingers.
‘I think you oughta just’ — he snapped his fingers, too — ‘vanish like that anyway, whoever the hell you are.’
‘No matter what happens, the game’s over, Mr. Stenhauser. It’s not going to work anymore — the art scam, I mean, and I know you know what I’m referring to. Now, I just want to talk to Hatcher, that’s all. No big hassle. Hell, we’re old friends. I once helped him out of a bad scrape.’
‘Is that a fact.’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen, I don’t know any Hatcher, but if I did know a
Hatcher, I wouldn’t tell you so much as his middle name. I
wouldn’t tell you his shoe size, I wouldn’t tell you his — I
wouldn’t tell you a damn thing about him. I don’t like you. I
don’t like your style, or your crazy talk Is that clear?’
Sloan nodded earnestly. He wiggled a finger under Stenhauser’s nose.
‘You’re going to be obstinate, I can tell,’ he said as slowly, as patiently as always, still smiling. ‘And that’s too bad.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Obstinacy will buy you about — oh, I don’t know
— at least ten years. Plus they’ll take every dime you’ve got, which I’d say is plenty at this point.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Mr. . . . Sloan, was it?’
Sloan nodded. ‘Listen, why don’t we just walk up to Seventy-fourth Street together. Maybe I can clarify all this for you. Nobody will pay any attention to us, and you’ve got to go up there to let your dog whiz anyway, theater or no theater. And in case you need more convincing, we could even chat about Paris, Chicago— New York.’
They sat there, trying to stare each other down. It was Stenhauser who lowered his eyes first.
‘What the hell,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘If you promise not to mug me on the way, maybe it’ll get you off my case.’
Outside, a brisk spring wind was blowing across town. They walked over to Madison Avenue and headed north. Stenhauser said nothing. He looked at the ground while he walked and his hands were jammed deep in his coat pockets.