12-Scam

by Parnell Hall

  I blinked at Alice. “What?”

  “Come on,” Alice said. “The whole thing’s fishy.”

  “Fishy?”

  “Sure. A guy goes into a bar, starts drinking with a girl, passes out, and wakes up on the street. He immediately concludes this has something to do with a proxy fight.”

  “Not immediately. This happened last week.”

  Alice rolled her eyes, turned back to what she was stirring on the stove. “That’s irrelevant. Or at least trivial. Never mind the speed at which he arrived at the conclusion, the fact is that he made the connection at all.”

  “You’re saying there’s no connection?”

  “I’m saying it sounds unlikely.”

  “I agree. So why do you say it’s a scam?”

  “That’s just the way it strikes me.”

  I took a breath. “I’m sure it is. Would you mind sharing your thought process? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Alice tasted the sauce she was stirring, headed for the spice rack. “The proxy fight is bullshit,” Alice said. She selected a jar, turned back to the stove. “I’m not saying there isn’t one. There probably is. But it probably has nothing to do with the girl in the bar.”

  “How is that a scam?”

  “That’s not a scam. It has nothing to do with it.”

  “Alice, you said it was a scam.”

  “Yeah. But not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “The guy’s story.”

  “I’m still not following you. Who’s pulling a scam on who?”

  “He’s pulling a scam on you.”

  “On me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just how do you figure that?”

  “He wants the girl.”

  “Huh?”

  “The guy wants the girl. That’s obvious. It’s the one thing we know for sure. He wants you to find the girl. All the rest of this stuff is just window dressing.”

  I blinked. Off the wall as that sounded, I was not about to reject it out of hand.

  You see, Alice is often right. Or at least she gives that impression. The truth is, my wife could anchor a national debate team. If she wanted to tell me black was white, I’d be hard pressed to argue.

  Just as I was now.

  “I’m still not following. What do you mean by window dressing?”

  “Just that. The guy wants to find the girl. But he’s embarrassed to say so. So he invents a reason.”

  “That sounds pretty stupid.”

  “Men are not always totally logical when women are involved.”

  While I groped for a comeback to that, Alice said, “So you went to this bar?”

  “Yeah, but it was a washout.”

  “Why?”

  “The bartender wasn’t there.”

  “The one who was on that night?”

  “Right.”

  “So when will he be on?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “You’ll go back then?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you figure you worked what today, an hour?”

  “What?”

  “On this case. You gonna bill him for an hour?”

  “I wasn’t going to bill him at all.”

  Alice turned away from the stove. “What, are you nuts? You went to the bar.”

  “The guy I wanted to see wasn’t there.”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s not like I did anything.”

  “You made the effort. What’s the guy want, a written guarantee?”

  “No, but—”

  “You say the guy’s not paying you by the day.”

  “Right. Because I have other cases.”

  “You could cancel them.”

  “Huh.”

  “The guy agreed to fifty bucks an hour, right? Isn’t that what you said? Well, Richard’s paying you twenty. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but you got a hundred and sixty dollar day working for Richard, or four hundred dollars working for him.”

  “Your math is fine. I’m just not sure if finding this girl is a full-time job.”

  “Well, you put in an hour already, right? Going to this bar.”

  “I’m not sure I should bill him for it.”

  “Right,” Alice said. “And do you know why?”

  “I told you. Because I didn’t really do anything.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Alice said. “That’s not why.”

  I took a breath. “Okay,” I said. “Then you tell me why.”

  “You’re afraid you won’t find her.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re afraid you won’t find the girl. You’re afraid you can’t do it. In which case, you won’t want to bill him at all.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you?”

  I hated to admit it, but as usual Alice had put her finger right on it. That was exactly the case. My main problem with finding this girl for Cranston Pritchert was I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it. Because, aside from talking to the bartender who was unlikely to be any help at all, there wasn’t much I could do.

  While I hesitated, thinking this, Alice bored in, voicing my doubts. “You think the bartender will be any help?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he isn’t, what will you do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The bartender’s your only real lead?”

  “More or less.”

  “So basically this guy hired you to interview the bartender?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why can’t he do it himself?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why does he need you? Why doesn’t he go in there and ask the bartender himself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you ask him why he didn’t want to interview the bartender himself?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It didn’t occur to me.”

  “Well, it’s occurred to you now. It might be a good idea to ask the gentleman.”

  “It’s probably nothing, Alice. He’s probably just embarrassed.”

  “Maybe so. But that in itself would be something. Fifty bucks an hour is pretty embarrassed.”

  “You know, you’re making a lot of deductions from no facts at all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  “No facts at all. Obviously this guy hasn’t told you everything.” Alice tasted the sauce, nodded her approval, switched off the burner. “Which lets you off the hook. You interview the bartender, report back to your client, and you’re done.”

  Somehow that didn’t seem like a solution. “Then what?” I said.

  Alice smiled. Shrugged.

  “That’s up to him.”

  4.

  THE BARTENDER SEEMED YOUNG. Of course, everyone I meet these days does. I’m sure to him I seemed old.

  He had brown hair, cut short on the top and long in the back, and a scrawny moustache. He twitched his nose, cocked his head at me and said, “You a cop?”

  Damn.

  In a project in Harlem I’m often taken for a cop because otherwise why would I be there? But in an East Side singles bar? Sure, I’d just come off work, so I was sporting a suit and tie. But why did that say cop rather than ad executive?

  Obviously, it was my manner. Which was a bit of a kick in the head. I’d just been contemplating ordering a Diet Coke and wondering how much it would set me back and whether I could charge it to Cranston Pritchert on the grounds I had to order it to maintain my cover, and now I find my cover’s blown before I even begin.

  I shook my head, flopped open my ID. “No,” I said, “I’m private. I got no beef with you. But I could use a little help.”

  The guy was even younger than I thought, because he grinned. “You’re a private detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You after someone’s wife?”

 
; “I beg your pardon?”

  “Getting evidence for a divorce?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “This last Thursday night. There’s a guy in here after work.”

  “There’s lots of guys in here after work.”

  “Yeah, well this one had to duck to get in the door.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guy looks like he could play guard for the Knicks if he was black and put on weight.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “You know who I mean?”

  “Hard to miss, isn’t he?”

  “I would imagine. You happen to see him Thursday night?”

  “Yeah. He was in here.”

  “You know his name?”

  “No, I don’t. And that’s how they like it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know the song from the TV show, Sometimes you gotta go where everybody knows your name? That’s bullshit. A bar like this, you wanna go where nobody knows your name. Now, they all know my name. Sandy. Hey, Sandy, get me a beer. But their name?” He shrugged. “I don’t ask.”

  “But he was a regular?”

  “Fairly. He popped in every now and then.”

  “This Thursday night—you see him talking to anyone in particular?”

  “Sure. The girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “Excuse me.”

  It was midafternoon and the bar was nearly empty, but the two business types that were there had just signaled for another round. Sandy moved down the bar to pick up the two empty glasses, then grabbed a cocktail shaker and started mixing another drink.

  “What girl?” I persisted.

  Sandy leaned in so the businessmen couldn’t hear. “Girl with the boobs,” he said.

  “Could you be more explicit?”

  “I could, but that says it all. Girl had big breasts, and wanted you to know it. Wearing a tank top two sizes too small. Eye-popping, she was.”

  “And he was interested?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hitting it off just fine, they were.”

  “You hear any of the conversation?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. I filled their drinks a couple of times. Seems to me they were talking the usual bullshit. City’s going to pot, economy’s going to hell.” He poured the contents of the shaker into the martini glass. “Hell of a pickup line.”

  “What were they drinking?”

  “Them? He’s drinking scotch and soda. She’s drinking daiquiris.”

  “Was that usual?”

  “For him, yeah. Her, I wouldn’t know.”

  Sandy opened a beer, set it and the martini in front of the two businessmen, and extracted a bill from the pile on the bar. It appeared to be a ten. I was glad I hadn’t ordered that Diet Coke.

  “You’d never seen the girl before?” I said when he came back.

  “First time.”

  “You happen to see them leave?”

  “No, I didn’t. You gotta understand. Right now, no one’s here. But five o’clock, this place will be packed. Be hardly room to move.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Tell me. This girl. Is there anyone else you saw talking to her? Anyone might be able to help me out?”

  “No one in particular I’m sure half a dozen guys hit on her. But I wouldn’t know who they were.” He picked up the two empty glasses and dunked them in the sink. “Look. You wanna hang out till five o’clock, start asking people if they saw this girl, do me a favor. Don’t. I’m talking to you because I’m a nice guy and I’m the bartender. But to the customers? A private detective in a singles bar is the kiss of death.” He shook the glasses, set them on the bar. He shrugged. “Just a hint.”

  Not exactly the hint I was looking for.

  5.

  CRANSTON PRITCHERT WAS NOT PLEASED.

  “You got nothing?” he said.

  “It would seem there’s nothing to get.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “There’s nothing to go on.”

  “You have a description.”

  “That I do. And if you want, I can go back tonight and ask around. But the bartender says that will probably do no good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because private detectives are not particularly popular in singles bars. They tend to make people nervous.”

  “You don’t have to say you’re a private detective.”

  “Of course not. Pardon me, but I’m making a survey of how many large-busted blondes hang out in singles bars, and have you happened to see one?”

  Pritchert frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you see the point. It’s very difficult for me to do this job. On the other hand, it would be easy for you. When you get off work tonight why don’t you go to the bar, as you often do, have a drink and ask around?”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would make me seem foolish. I can’t afford to appear foolish with this proxy fight going on.”

  “You think having me asking around doesn’t make you seem foolish?”

  His eyes widened. “You’re not mentioning me.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m asking about the girl. You think no one’s gonna notice she’s talking to someone six foot six?”

  “Hell.”

  “Well, that’s the situation. So far I’ve only talked to the bartender. I could go back during happy hour, work some line, start asking customers. But if you think I can describe the girl and leave you out of it, you must be dreaming.”

  He frowned, thought that over.

  “If you don’t want me to do that,” I said, “there’s nothing I can do. Now, I put in two hours already, one last night and one the day before. That’s a hundred bucks. You gave me a two hundred dollar retainer. If you like, I’ll return a hundred to you now and forget the whole thing. Frankly, that’s what I’d prefer to do, because the bartender has already told me he doesn’t want me hanging around.”

  “You’re not working for the bartender,” Pritchert said.

  “No, I’m not. And I’m not working for you either, unless there’s something I can actually do. Frankly, this whole thing seems a tempest in a teapot.”

  Pritchert frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just because a girl tries to pick you up in a bar, there’s no reason to assume anything sinister. Now, if the girl showed up, tried to shake you down, that would be something else. But the way things stand, there’s no reason to assume anything of the sort. You met a girl, you had a few too many drinks, you don’t remember everything that happened. Big deal. If you got nothing more to go on, I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “I tell you, it means something.”

  “How do you know that? Intuition?”

  “You can call it what you like. The fact is, I want something done.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to find this girl.”

  “And how would you propose I do that?”

  He took a breath. “You’re the detective. You should be telling me.”

  “I am telling you, I’m telling you it’s a long shot and it’s probably a waste of time. If you want me to go through the motions, I’ll go through the motions. Right now I got a woman in Queens fell down in a McDonald’s and broke her arm. So I gotta be going.”

  “How can I reach you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Suppose I need to reach you during business hours.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I don’t know. But if I did.”

  I took out one of Richard Rosenberg’s business cards. “This is the attorney I work for. The switchboard can always reach me.”

>   “You going to work now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When do you get off?”

  “In the afternoon.”

  “When?”

  “Depends on what cases come in. Some days I’m off by two, some days I work till six.”

  “What about today?”

  “So far I just got the one case. I should knock it off by noon.” He frowned. “So in theory I could work for you then. Assuming nothing else came in. And assuming there was something you wanted me to do.”

  “I want you to find the girl.”

  “I understand. Can you suggest one line of inquiry I might pursue at twelve o’clock this afternoon?”

  He rubbed his forehead. Exhaled. “All right. Try the bar. Tonight. During happy hour.”

  “All right,” I said. “If that’s what you want. But if I don’t get a lead, this will eat up your last hundred bucks. At which point I am done. Unless you have more ideas, more money, or preferably both.”

  “What if you get a lead?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s the point I want to make. If I should get a lead, do you want me to follow It up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “At fifty bucks an hour plus expenses?”

  “Of course. That’s what we agreed on.”

  “I know. What I’m asking is how far do you want me to go?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, what’s the limit? Suppose I get a lead tonight and have to stake out an apartment for ten hours waiting for the woman to come back. You gonna foot the bill?”

  “Ten hours?”

  “That was an example. You tell me how many hours.”

  “I don’t know. It would depend on the situation,”

  “Fine. You want me to call you and ask?”

  He put up his hand. “No, no. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

  “What? You’re psychic? You’ll know if I need to talk to you?”

  “No, no. You’re an honest man. I’ll trust you. If you get a lead, you follow it up. I’ll trust you to use your best judgment. I’m instructing you to follow up anything that seems promising. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning to get your report.”

  “Suppose I’m sitting on a stakeout?”

  “Good point. If you’re not here, I’ll call the number you gave me. You say they can reach you?”

  “Yeah. I have a beeper. They can page me.”

  “Fine. That’s what I’ll do.”

  I frowned. Put up my hand. “Mr. Pritchert. This is all well and good. But I have to tell you, the whole thing’s a long shot. My professional opinion is, I’ll spend two hours in the bar, learn nothing useful, use up your money, and be done.”