Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective) Read Free

celebrate—have dinner, maybe see a show or something. All right?”
    I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I did feel like seeing her. “All right.”
    “Good.” She paused. “Hey, you’ll be a working detective again next week. That’s what counts, isn’t it?”
    “That’s what counts,” I said. And it was.

    So I went down to the Hall of Justice two days later and talked to the Chief of Police, at his summons, and got things more or less patched up there. Two days after that, I drove up to Sacramento and had my interview with the State Board of Licenses. They seemed satisfied that I’d “learned my lesson,” as one of the Board members put it, and the vote to reinstate was unanimous; the Chief must have written them some strong letter at Eberhardt’s behest. They did not even place any restrictions on me, other than to stress that I cooperate fully with all public law enforcement agencies in the future.
    And on Wednesday, the first of October, I was back in business.
    Hunting the hobo, for starters.

Chapter 2
     
    T he fact that I landed a client that same day was not much of a surprise, really, considering there had been a fair amount of publicity attached to the reinstatement of my license. Not that I minded the publicity in this case; it was just what I needed, and I had spoken freely to the half-dozen media people who’d contacted me. Some of the news stories were good-natured and the rest were straight reportage; nobody seemed to think a menace to society or to the city’s finest was being turned loose again. The consensus appeared to be, at least by implication, that an injustice had been righted and it was okay for me to be back in the detective game.
    A gratifying number of people I knew, and a couple I didn’t know, agreed with that. After the news stories appeared, I received maybe two dozen calls over a three-day span—six from friendly cops who hadn’t agreed with the Chief’s original stance; one from another private investigator, a lady named Sharon McCone whom I’d met once and who was a friend of Eberhardt’s police crony, Greg Marcus; one from a claims adjustor at an insurance company and three from attorneys, all of whom I’d worked for in the past; one from a Chinese photojournalist, Jeanne Emerson, who wanted to do a feature article on my trials and tribulations; and the rest from a variety of acquaintances.
    The call I’d most been waiting for, that first new client, came at a little past two o‘clock. It was from a woman who identified herself as Miss Arleen Bradford. She said she’d read about me in the papers, and could I come down to her office at Denim, Inc. right away to discuss a job she wanted done. It had to do with locating a missing relative, she said. She also said she had a meeting at four o’clock, so I would need to get there by three-fifteen. I told her I would be in her office by three-ten at the latest. And I caught myself grinning a little on my way out the door.
    Denim, Inc. was a clothing manufacturer—jeans and denim jackets, for the most part. Their main offices were located in an old brick building on Mission Street, on the fringe of the Hispanic district. It was just three when I parked in the front lot, five past when I got up to the fourth floor, and not quite ten past when one of a battery of secretaries ushered me through a door that bore the lettering: A. BRADFORD, PRODUCT MANAGER.
    Arleen Bradford turned out to be a thin, wiry, prim-looking type in her mid-thirties. She might have been attractive if she’d put on about fifteen pounds, done something to her dark brown hair other than have it cut with a bowl and a pair of hedge clippers, and worn something besides a mannish gray suit and a blouse with so many frills and ruffles on the front that you couldn’t tell whether or not she had breasts. As it was, she looked like an uneasy combination of successful modern businesswoman and budding old maid. She sounded and acted that way, too. On