The Referral Game (A Frank Randall Mystery)

by Steven Ehrman

  “Randall.”

  “Yeah?” I said, turning around.

  “You know, Frank, I feel the same way about those kids as you do.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I know I came down hard on you, but sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. How can I go on, bury my feelings and not think about them twenty-four hours a day?”

  “I don’t know the answer, Captain.”

  We left the thought hanging in the air and I left the house. It was a partly cloudy day and a breeze was coming up.

  In my office that evening the phone rang. The news about Bill and Paula had broken and the phone had rung for much of the day.

  “Frank Randall,” I said.

  “Hey, Randall. I see you had a big day.” It was Jimmy.

  “It was a long day, anyhow.”

  “Always the smart crack, that’s what I like about you.”

  “What do you want, Jimmy?”

  “This is a follow up call. Don’t you know anything about running a successful business?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You’re supposed to follow up each business transaction with a phone call, to make sure the customer is satisfied with the product. That’s how you build repeat business.”

  “I see.”

  I was getting a headache from Jimmy’s business acumen.

  “I can see from the news reports that you put our info to good use.” Jimmy said it flatly, but I could imagine the sneer on his face.

  “I put it to use.”

  “Good. Now, remember to recommend us to your friends, when you make some. Anyway I’ll see you around, Randall.”

  “Jimmy, wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “I need to know something. Why did you give that information?”

  “Boy, you’re not much of a detective, are you, Randall?”

  I let that pass.

  “It’s simple,” he continued, “it’s like I told you before, Frankie and me hate cops.”

  He hung up laughing. I laid the phone receiver down on the desk. I didn’t want it to ring anymore. I was tired of talking.

  I decided to get out of the office and take a drive. It was already getting dark, and the air had a chill to it. I wandered the city aimlessly. I lost track of time. I wanted to find a reason to go on. Life had to make more sense than this. I found myself in the neighborhood of the Pomeroy mansion. I passed it slowly, and went around the block, and stopped in front of the old mausoleum. The leaves were off the trees and the battlement on the northwest corner was the prominent feature from this view. It really looked like an old castle to me. Maybe, high in that battlement there was a fair maiden waiting for me to rescue her. I chuckled to myself. I wasn’t the knightly type.

  I pulled back out into light traffic and was stopped by a red light, after a few blocks. I thought over the last few months and realized that there was only one person who had played it straight with me, one person who hadn’t conned me or conspired against me or assaulted me or tried to murder me. One person, who had told me that there was a code, a code that said you stood by your friends and tried to help them. That person was Susan Maxwell. She had loyalty. She had more character than all the rest of them put together.

  I stopped at another traffic light and looked up at the street signs. I was five minutes from the club. The light turned green. I pulled out and stepped hard on the accelerator.

  I had to see her again. If I could talk to her, I could explain my feelings. Maybe she was still mad at me; maybe she wouldn’t talk to me tonight. But none of that mattered anymore. I was going to keep coming back until she did talk to me. I don’t let go of things easily; sometimes it comes in handy. I’ll convince her. I know it. I think she already likes me a little.

  I hope Rudy gives me a good table.

  As I sped towards the club I saw my girl on a street corner. I slowed slightly to make certain it was her. Same hair and same dress. I wondered it she was cold without a coat. She turned her head to follow me as I passed. I looked in the rear view, and in the fading light she lifted her right arm and waved at me. She had never done that.

  The End

  Sneak Peak

  The Next Frank Randall Mystery

  I parked my car on the street, three blocks from the office. I usually used the garage around the corner from the office to keep it out of the weather, but it was a clear day so I thought I would save a little scratch. I had a day old burrito for breakfast, and washed it down with two cups of bad coffee at my apartment that morning. I felt a little groggy from a tussle with a bottle from that night before and I thought the walk might clear my head.

  It was early and the streets were just beginning to fill with traffic. As I was waiting at a cross street I saw a couple of the neighborhood toughs go by in an orange Chevy. They were on the edge of organized crime, and helped to shakedown some of the local merchants for protection money. How connected they were I was not certain, but they never would have been allowed to operate without some juice. They called themselves the neighborhood watch. They were watching all right. I had run into them before, and although they had done me a good turn they were also dangerous. I gave the car a wary nod when they passed.

  I walked into the building and crossed the lobby to the elevator. I pressed the up key and waited. The elevator in the building was on the fritz half the time. The doors didn’t open and the brass half circle over the top of the elevator had the arm pointed to lobby. I pressed the button a couple of more times, that never worked, and decided on the stairs. I was only on the second floor, anyway. On the first landing I stopped to light a cigarette and then continued to the second floor. I remembered why I didn’t take the stairs too often. The stairwell was filthy and it looked like someone had been doing some drinking, as I kicked away two beer bottles and an empty pint whiskey bottle just on my short trip. I made a mental note to call building maintenance for all the good it was likely to do.

  I opened the second floor door and made my way down the hall to my office. The door had Frank Randall, Discreet Investigations painted on it and I noted that the paint was fading. It was the first thing people saw when they came to the office and I liked to keep up appearances. I made another mental note to call the painter. The office set up was a two-room affair. The outer office had two bookshelves with various tomes I had picked up at a bookstore when I had first opened the place. It was an eclectic collection with classic novels, references materials, and the odd biography that was available on the cheap at the time. There was a couch and three upholstered chairs arranged for customers to be seated, if I was busy, and a desk and chair for my secretary. The secretary was an off and on addition to my detective firm and the position was open at the time. Two filing cabinets on a wall to the right of the desk, rounded out the accruements. I passed through into the inner office, hung my jacket up, stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on my desk and sat down.

  My office was a roughly half again as large as the outer office. Immediately to the left of the door was a large couch for my clients and it also doubled as a bed for me at times. My mahogany desk dominated the room and there were two chairs in front of it for clients. On one wall was a huge map of the city and it was flanked by two more bookcases. There was a sink and mirror behind a partition in the back of the office A television and a radio in the corner rounded out the room.

  I had a pile of mail from yesterday that I had not gone through as of yet. I loosened my tie and grabbed my ornate brass letter opener. Slicing each envelope neatly, I began to plow through the pile. I was hoping to find a check, but there seemed to be only bills and advertisements. I looked at one letter that was shilling toothpaste and tossed it in the trash. The next letter was advertising answering machines. I put that one in the maybe pile and it reminded me to call the service and have them send my calls through. As I was hanging up the phone, I heard someone walking in the hallway and they seemed to pause at the door to the office. After a moment had p
assed they continued on. I had noticed in the past that some customers needed a couple of runs at the door before they came in.

  Sometimes the investigation they wanted to commission was embarrassing and sometimes it just seemed that private eyes were low on the social level, and that in itself was embarrassing. I could wait until they steeled their courage up. I stepped behind the partition to splash some water on my face and check out my appearance in the mirror. My 170 pounds was spread out over a frame of some six feet. I had shaved the day before and I had a clean shirt on. I heard the door to the outer office open and I dried my face and walked over to my office door. Before I reached it, the door opened and a woman stepped in.

  “Mr. Randall?” she asked, in a raspy voice with just the hint of an accent.

  “I’m Frank Randall. How can I help you?”

  She strode up to me and firmly shook my hand. I motioned her to a seat in front of my desk and sat down myself.

  “I am Glenda Petersen,” she said. “I have been married for just over a year and my husband has disappeared”

  She spoke calmly. I pulled a cigarette from a package in my front pocket and lit it. I drew in a lungful of smoke and studied her. She was a well-dressed woman of perhaps fifty; well groomed hair, with perfect makeup, and manicured nails. She had on a gray jacket and a gray skirt. She looked like money.

  “Mrs. Peterson, most husbands who disappear don’t want to be found, and when they are the wives usually don’t like what they have found.”

  “Mr. Randall,” she said, still in a calm tone. “I am a woman who is used to getting what she wants. I have been told you are a competent and discreet investigator. I want Tony found. I’ll deal with any consequences that such an investigation might produce.”

  I drew in another lungful of smoke, blew it out, and stubbed the cigarette.

  “Okay, you win, Mrs. Peterson. I was only spelling out one of several possible outcomes, but if you want to investigate your husband’s disappearance, I am for hire. How long has your husband been missing?”

  She looked shrewdly at me and seemed to make a decision.

  “Perhaps I should give you some background. I was a widow, and a wealthy one, when I met Tony at the racetrack some eighteen months ago. He was dashing and handsome and ten years younger than me. We began an affair almost immediately and we were married several months later”

  “What did he do for a living, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “Of course, you have to ask that, but I honestly do not know. I rather fancied he had inherited some money. He was closely guarded about his business life, but I always assumed he was involved in stocks. Money was never a problem and he didn’t marry me for mine”

  That last part was said in a rush and she sat slightly flushed and was breathing hard.

  “I apologize, Mr. Randall,” She said, as she regained her composure. “Tony and I had separate bank accounts and if he was after my money he disappeared before he got any of it. We were happily married until about six weeks ago.”

  “What happened then?” I asked, as I grabbed a pen and began to take notes.

  “Tony would not admit to it, but he was nervous. He became argumentative if asked, so I stopped. About a month ago he left in the morning and said he had business to take care of and would be back in the evening. I have not seen him since.”

  “I take it you have notified the police.”

  “Of course, but they ran into a problem and that is why I have decided to hire my own investigator.”

  I waited. She seemed on the verge of changing her mind and then plunged ahead.

  “Mr. Randall, when I reported my husband missing the police had a surprising bit of information for me.”

  She paused again and then continued.

  “They told me that Tony Peterson died twenty years ago.”