Particularly a case he had won. Steve smiled at the irony. Yeah, he’d won the case all right, but no one knew it. Not even Tracy Garvin. Oh, they knew his client got off. They just didn’t know he’d got her off. And the things he’d had to do to win that case, playing the clown in court to take the heat off his client-well, after all that, there was no chance anyone was going to hire him to do anything else.
But he’d accepted that, and he was used to that, and he was living with it.
He just didn’t need to have it flung in his face.
Steve picked up the Backstage, opened it to the casting calls. Shit. More of the same. He folded the paper over, ran his finger down the listings. “Off-Broadway showcase.” Great. A chance to battle a hundred other actors for the chance to work for three months for nothing on the off chance some agent or producer might see his work. “Chorus work.”
“Chorus work.”
“Independent casting director accepting pix and resumes.” Christ, had he registered with that one?
“All right, what the fuck is this?”
Steve looked up.
Tracy was standing in the doorway. Her folded glasses were in one hand. A letter was in the other.
Steve frowned. He’d never been an employer before. Never had an employee. Tracy Garvin was it. But he considered himself a liberal employer. He let her dress as she pleased, do what she liked. And she’d just given notice and he thought he’d taken it well.
But this was a little much.
He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Tracy strode over to his desk and thrust the letter at him. From her action, it might have been a sword. “This!” she said.
Steve looked up at her. “And what is that?”
“A letter.”
“I can see that. What about it?”
“Open it.”
Steve frowned. After all, she was the one who had given notice. Had he offended her in some way? Perhaps the Della Street crack? Had she gone back to her desk, gotten pissed off, and typed up a formal letter of resignation? No, in that case, she wouldn’t be asking him what it was. So what was it?”
Steve sighed, and took the letter from her. It was typewritten, postmarked, and addressed to him; in fact, it was one of the letters he had just set on her desk.
The letter had been slit open. Steve reached in and pulled out the contents.
It was ten one thousand dollar bills.
2
There was also a letter.
Mr. Winslow: I am in a desperate situation and require your services. The matter is extremely delicate and must be handled with the utmost discretion. Enclosed find a retainer of $10,000.
Steve Winslow read it out loud. He frowned, and looked at the letter again. He looked up to find Tracy glaring at him accusingly. “You did this, didn’t you?” she said.
He stared at her. “What?”
“You did this. Because of the books I read. You did it as a joke. Well, fine. You didn’t know I was giving notice. But after I did, not to tell me … well, it isn’t funny.”
Steve shook his head. “What, are you nuts?”
“No. You did this, right? You put the ten thousand dollars in there.”
“Are you kidding?” Steve said. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars. If I did, I sure wouldn’t put it in an envelope and give it to you.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. Of course not.”
Tracy stared at him. “You mean …?”
“What?”
“You mean it’s real?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be counterfeit, but it looks real to me. Frankly, I’ve never seen a thousand dollar bill before.”
“No, no. I mean, someone actually sent this to you.”
“They sure did.”
Tracy’s jaw dropped open. “Holy shit!”
Steve smiled. “My sentiments exactly.”
Tracy’s face was struggling through a myriad of reactions. “But, Jesus Christ. I mean, hey look. I’m sorry. I just thought … I mean, seeing that letter, and-”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s what I would have thought too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you put that ten grand in there to needle me.”
Tracy could hardly contain herself. “So it’ s real. It happened. Someone just sent you ten thousand bucks!”
Steve frowned. “Yeah.”
Tracy looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
Steve shook his head. This was his day to disillusion her, all right. “I can’t keep it.”
Tracy’s jaw dropped open again. “What?”
Steve held up the letter that had been in the envelope with the money. “Did you read this?” he said.
“Yes.”
“It’s typewritten and unsigned.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so interesting.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“This is an anonymous letter. An anonymous retainer.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So I can’t keep it.”
“Why not?”
“I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney. I handle her affairs. I can’t take any other case unless I’m sure there won’t be a conflict of interest.”
“Why would there be?”
“I have no idea. But until I know for sure, I can’t accept this retainer.”
Tracy couldn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to believe it. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said. “There isn’t the slightest chance in the world this has anything to do with Sheila Benton. It would be an incredible coincidence.”
“Even if that were true, I couldn’t discount the possibility. But it’s not.”
“Why not?’
“Think about it,” Steve said. “I have no law practice what-so-ever. No one knows about me. The only people who know I’m practicing law at all are people connected with Sheila Benton.”
Tracy’s face clouded. “Oh. But …”
“But what?”
“Oh,” she said in helpless frustration. “You can’t give it back.”
Steve smiled. “Now there you are absolutely right. I don’t know who it came from, so I can’t give it back. Which puts me in a hell of a position. I can’t keep it, and I can’t give it back.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well,” Steve said. “First thing, let’s find out where it came from. Tell you what. Call the Taylor Detective Agency and see if you can get Mark Taylor on the phone for me.”
“Right away,” Tracy said. She turned and headed for the outer office.
“Hey, where you going?” Steve said.
She turned back in the doorway. “To look up the number on the Rolodex.”
After the hard time Tracy had been giving him, Steve couldn’t resist the shot. “Della Street never had to look up Paul Drake’s number,” he said.
Tracy made a face. “Hey, fuck you,” she said.”
“She never said that either.”
3
Tracy ushered Mark Taylor into the inner office.
“Hi, Mark,” Steve said. “Come in. Sit down. This is my secretary, Tracy Garvin. Mark Taylor.”
Mark Taylor cast an appreciative eye over her. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Don’t get too attached to her,” Steve said. “She just gave two weeks’ notice.”
“I don’t blame you,” Taylor said to Tracy. “The guy’s a slave driver. He’s been overworking you, huh?”
“That’s right,” Steve said. “She can’t stand the pace.”
Taylor nodded, and slumped his bulk in the overstuffed clients’ chair. Mark Taylor was Steve Winslow’s age; in fact, they’d been roommates in college. But while Steve was tall and thin, Taylor was all beef. At six feet, 220 pounds, he had had professional football aspirations, before an injury cut short his career.
“So what’s up?” Taylor said.
“I want you to locate a client.”
“You have a client?”
“I will if you find him.”
“Skipped out?”
“No.”
“Police?”
Steve frowned. “No, but it’s an idea.”
“So who’s the client?”