head. She fingered the Russian cross on a silver chain around her neck. âHow much does it cost to hire you?â
I had never been hired to find out the whole truth before so I had to refigure my time schedule. Since I didnât have to locate the paper on the case I would save time, but if she had actually read it all and still hadnât resolved for herself why it happened, I might have to dig up some outside source to satisfy her. It might be very far outside, and that could take time, and some more of her money.
âThat all depends on the type of case and the client. Let me read through the files and see what, if anything, I can do for you. Generally I charge twenty-five dollars per hour plus expenses, and generally no one ever pays their bills so I have to be flexible.â
Behind me, there was a knock on the door. I heard it open just a crack. Mrs. Victor looked up.
âOne minute! Iâll be done in just a minute,â she called. âIâm sorry, Mr. Younger, but I have an appointment. Someone is coming to visit. If you could read the files I will pay you two hundred dollars just for your opinion of the case and then we can talk about what to do from there. Can you come and see me tomorrow?â
I nodded, hefted the boxes into my arms, and pried open the door with my knee. There was no one in the hallway waiting to get in so I turned and walked toward the main entrance.
Ordinarily, two fifteen-pound boxes wouldnât be a problem for me but this morning as I teetered down the steps I was breaking into a sweat under my flannel shirt. It was unpleasant. The heat from my body smelled like barroom smoke, and the sweat in my eyes felt like tequila burning under my lids. Even if my body felt like it was rotting, my spirit was beginning to rise. This, at least, was a big case, with some good reading. I wouldnât have to be following somebody in a neck brace, waiting to photograph them playing tennis or jumping on a trampoline. At least this was a murder, even if it was old and already solved.
I walked past the bench. I had too much to carry already so I left the Berry there. It wouldnât be a problem. I had once left Mind and Nature on that same bench for a week and no one disturbed it. It was just a little damp and the corners were frayed where it looked like a raven had been turning pages.
TWO
I DONâT LIKE to tell people what I do. They always say, âThat must be interestingâ and then stare at my chest as if they expect me to pull a gun from under my jacket and dive through the open window out to my waiting car. I donât like to tell people what I do because eventually I disappoint them. I donât drive an expensive car or an old car with lots of character. In fact, I donât have a driverâs license. I hitchhike, take cabs, or walk. All three are much better for conversation anyway.
I donât carry a gun. I donât own a handgun, but it seems like there are guns everywhere I work. Look beside the cashbox, behind the bar, the nightstand in the lawyerâs bedroom, the cargo pouch of the snowmachineâyouâll find one. Large-caliber revolvers mostly, with a solid phallic gravity. But every once in a while thereâs a small well-made ladyâs gun.
Itâs not that I disapprove of handguns; I donât carry one mostly because the police wonât let me. They like to picture me knocking on a psychopathâs trailer door with nothing but a number 2 pencil, a spiral notebook, and maybe a tape recorder for protection. But it generally works out. The few times Iâve been able to predict that Iâm going to need a gun I take the Judgeâs long-barreled 12-gauge to the front door. And when the unexpected happens and I am most needy, I wait for the karmic cycle to deliver a piece into my hand. Of course, that hasnât happened, but hope springs eternal.
Physically, Iâm also a disappointment as a private
I had never been hired to find out the whole truth before so I had to refigure my time schedule. Since I didnât have to locate the paper on the case I would save time, but if she had actually read it all and still hadnât resolved for herself why it happened, I might have to dig up some outside source to satisfy her. It might be very far outside, and that could take time, and some more of her money.
âThat all depends on the type of case and the client. Let me read through the files and see what, if anything, I can do for you. Generally I charge twenty-five dollars per hour plus expenses, and generally no one ever pays their bills so I have to be flexible.â
Behind me, there was a knock on the door. I heard it open just a crack. Mrs. Victor looked up.
âOne minute! Iâll be done in just a minute,â she called. âIâm sorry, Mr. Younger, but I have an appointment. Someone is coming to visit. If you could read the files I will pay you two hundred dollars just for your opinion of the case and then we can talk about what to do from there. Can you come and see me tomorrow?â
I nodded, hefted the boxes into my arms, and pried open the door with my knee. There was no one in the hallway waiting to get in so I turned and walked toward the main entrance.
Ordinarily, two fifteen-pound boxes wouldnât be a problem for me but this morning as I teetered down the steps I was breaking into a sweat under my flannel shirt. It was unpleasant. The heat from my body smelled like barroom smoke, and the sweat in my eyes felt like tequila burning under my lids. Even if my body felt like it was rotting, my spirit was beginning to rise. This, at least, was a big case, with some good reading. I wouldnât have to be following somebody in a neck brace, waiting to photograph them playing tennis or jumping on a trampoline. At least this was a murder, even if it was old and already solved.
I walked past the bench. I had too much to carry already so I left the Berry there. It wouldnât be a problem. I had once left Mind and Nature on that same bench for a week and no one disturbed it. It was just a little damp and the corners were frayed where it looked like a raven had been turning pages.
TWO
I DONâT LIKE to tell people what I do. They always say, âThat must be interestingâ and then stare at my chest as if they expect me to pull a gun from under my jacket and dive through the open window out to my waiting car. I donât like to tell people what I do because eventually I disappoint them. I donât drive an expensive car or an old car with lots of character. In fact, I donât have a driverâs license. I hitchhike, take cabs, or walk. All three are much better for conversation anyway.
I donât carry a gun. I donât own a handgun, but it seems like there are guns everywhere I work. Look beside the cashbox, behind the bar, the nightstand in the lawyerâs bedroom, the cargo pouch of the snowmachineâyouâll find one. Large-caliber revolvers mostly, with a solid phallic gravity. But every once in a while thereâs a small well-made ladyâs gun.
Itâs not that I disapprove of handguns; I donât carry one mostly because the police wonât let me. They like to picture me knocking on a psychopathâs trailer door with nothing but a number 2 pencil, a spiral notebook, and maybe a tape recorder for protection. But it generally works out. The few times Iâve been able to predict that Iâm going to need a gun I take the Judgeâs long-barreled 12-gauge to the front door. And when the unexpected happens and I am most needy, I wait for the karmic cycle to deliver a piece into my hand. Of course, that hasnât happened, but hope springs eternal.
Physically, Iâm also a disappointment as a private
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