Two Clients in Three Days — Both From Hell

A couple of days later, I sitting at my desk when I was shocked to see another client walking in to my humble place of business.

Two in three days. That was a record.

I disliked this guy at first sight. He was fairly tall, around 5'10" and in terrible shape—he must have weighed 320 and damned little of it was muscle. Short, brown hair with way too much hair oil. Small eyes, constantly moving. Big mouth, with a big expensive cigar stuck in it. Brown three piece suit. He smelled of money, sweat, cigars, and hair oil. I put him at around 50. He clearly had money. Equally clearly, it was not honestly or honorably acquired.

"I'd like to retain your services, McGill."

At least the guy got straight to the point. That was a pleasure.

"How can I help you Mr..."

"Patterson. Ralph J. Patterson. I'd like your opinion of my wife's fidelity."

"Are you completely certain about that, Mr. Patterson?" My standard line in any adultery case.

"You're damned right I am, McGill. I've bought and paid for that little beauty. I'll be damned if anyone else is getting benefit from my considerable investment."

How could any woman not be completely entranced by that level of charm, warmth, and romance?

Patterson put a trio of one-hundred-dollar bills on my desk, a photograph of a tall, leggy brunette wearing something very tight and very expensive, and the address of a cafe on the Northside where she spent her mornings. He got up and turned to leave.

"One more question, Mr. Patterson. Why did you come all the way down here? There are some good people up in your neighborhood."

"I've been unsatisfied with the results your Northside colleagues have delivered, McGill. 'Frank McGill gets it done.' That's the word. Get it done, and there are three more hundreds waiting for you. Plus any and all expenses. And my undying gratitude."

He walked out of my office. I sat there, thinking about my unexpected reputation. Same words. From two wealthy Northsiders. In two days.

I looked down at my desk. I had a strong temptation to boil the three hundreds he'd left. But I decided it would make them harder to spend—and I needed to pay the rent. I couldn't in good conscience spend Al DiGiordano's two one hundred dollar bills. I'd done nothing to earn them—though I'd also made no effort to return the money. I looked at Al's card. Not far from the cafe where I was going to begin my surveillance of Patterson's wife. Just a coincidence, I thought naively at the time. Maybe I'd run into DiGiordano, give him back his dough, and clear my conscience.

Shortly thereafter—since I now had an expense account—I flagged down a taxi and gave the driver the address

"Cafe Neon? That'll be about fifteen bucks, brother." I pulled out the hundreds—and made certain that the cabby saw my .38. Just in case he wanted to do more than verify my ability to pay.

We drove in silence. I watched the endless, man-high snow drifts, the people in coats, hats, heads down to avoid the wind. I couldn't remember anything but snow. So why did I find the endless winter so disturbing?

I didn't go up to the Northside often. As we crossed Lake Street—the unofficial border between the Northside and my neighborhood—I remembered why. The prosperity evident in the high rise offices and expensive apartments brought out an ugly level of envy in me.

Even the snow seemed lighter on that side of town. It certainly was more efficiently plowed than down in my neighborhood.

The cabby dropped me in front of the Cafe Neon. The place was aptly named; I was nearly blinded by the light. I paid the driver. Tipped him well, too. For being quiet. The doorman helped me out of the cab.

"I've got to get to this side of town more often," I muttered under my breath.

The hostess was the sort of girl that I'd only seen previously in very glossy magazines. Her skintight dress left no doubt that her body was perfect. Her complexion was perfect. Her short, light brown hair was perfect. Her green eyes were perfect. I had an immediate desire to catch a cab back to Southside. That much perfection in one package was rather unnerving.

I got the definite impression that she'd never seen anyone like me, in the flesh, either. She looked at me as though she'd seen my face on the post office wall and then told me flatly they were full up. I commented on the half-dozen empty tables. To no effect. I then gave her a twenty from the expense account. With an almost startling suddenness, she realized that one of the tables was, in fact, available.

"Be thankful for small miracles," I said. She ignored me—though watching her lead me to the table was more than enough recompense. With a body like that, she didn't really need to be polite. At least to a down-and-out detective like Frank McGill.

I sat and ordered a coffee that cost more than I made most days. I rapidly scanned the room, and realized that the girl at the front door was nothing special for the place. There were enough angels sipping caffeinated drinks that I thought that I’d died and gone, unaccountably, to heaven. I wondered for a moment if there was snow in heaven, too.

But my client's wife stood out, even in that group. She was definitely one of the seraphim in a heaven of otherwise only average angels.

She was tall, probably 5'8", with waist-length black hair, and very impressive legs. Actually, from what I could see under her ten-grand fur coat, everything about her was pretty damned impressive.

Probably was unfaithful, I thought.

She was smart, too. She caught my eye, and immediately paid her check. I dropped a ten on the table. Might cover one coffee in that place.

I was held up by the hostess—her doubts about my ability to pay clearly reignited. When I got through the stained glass revolving doors, though, there was my client's wife.

Almost seemed to be waiting for me, I thought.

She walked rapidly down the well plowed street; I followed her at a discreet distance. I'd have sworn she looked back at me once or twice, just to see if I was still there. She entered another cafe—Northside has four to a block. I speeded up, and entered shortly after her. Before I could check out the place, I saw her escaping through the back service entrance.

I ran—in as dignified a manner as possible given the snow—to the back of the cafe. Just in time to see waist-length black hair and long legs disappearing into a cab. I quickly hailed another, and told the cabby to follow. In as expeditious a manner as possible. He complied. In fact, his driving made me feel extremely grateful that I hadn't had breakfast that day. We drove—very rapidly indeed—for several miles.

The guy driving her cab must have learned Special Forces evasive techniques—and must have known that part of the city like I knew the back of my once five-fingered left hand.

Left turns from the far right lane.

Heading down one way streets the wrong way.

My guy kept up. Barely.

"You Northside cabbies are serious," I said, as I was again hurled hard against the left door.

He just grunted. I couldn't blame him. I really didn't want to break his apparently deep meditative concentration. I had no particular desire to be scraped off the sidewalk.

Hell, in that part of town, they'd have taken one look at my less-than-stylish suit and ten-year-old fedora, and dumped my body in an alley. I was certain that I wasn't financially qualified to be picked up by a Northside ambulance. Or hearse.

Up there, you probably needed a cosigner for a blood transfusion. Or a headstone.

To my great relief, her cab finally pulled up in front of one of the 120-story granite monoliths that cut out what little sun filtered painfully through the unbroken clouds. She entered the place fast. If I hadn't been following her, I'd have just sat there, and enjoyed watching her run in heels.

I dropped my guy $40 for a $10 ride, and told him to wait.

I'd never been in a building like that before. The lobby must have been four stories high, with enough polished marble for several baroque cathedrals. The security guard took one look at me running in after a beautiful woman who obviously belonged in that fine establishment more than I, and put an arm on me.

It didn't matter. Even without the friendly, helpful, deeply committed, 280-pound security guard trying to get me out the door before I could reduce the ground rent of the place, I saw her disappear into a crowded elevator.

This girl was good. She'd been tailed before. And lost them, probably.

She lost me. Short of waiting outside for hours, or days, there was no way to find her in a building with 10,000 apartments.

I told my cabby to find another brave, strong-stomached fare, and let him keep the $30 in change. It was a big tip. But we'd both survived the ride. He'd earned it.

I decided to walk on the relatively snow-free sidewalk, and consider my next move. I didn't want to disappoint my client. Beyond reasons of professional pride, I had the distinct impression that Mr. Patterson was not a man to take disappointment in the stoic manner classically suggested by Epictetus in his Enchiridion.

I walked in no particular, consciously chosen direction. I passed a used book store—Sophia's was the name—and made a note of the address. I thought I knew every bookstore in the city—even those in neighborhoods I didn't frequent. But I'd never seen this one. "Specialists in Philosophy, Religion, and Mysticism—We Have All The Answers." I wished I had time to stop in. A good bookstore was the greatest peace I'd been able to find since I'd lost Haydn. But I didn't have the time. I had to try to think of a next move.

I continued walking and found myself back in front of the Cafe Neon—and saw the 120-storey marble palace a couple of streets down. That entire life-threatening drive had ended up two blocks from where we'd started.

As I passed the window, there she was, sipping a double espresso and reading. She looked up from her book and smiled at me through the window.

I stood there for a minute. She sipped her coffee slowly, looking at me dead in the eye. Even through the plate glass window—and the blinding neon—there was something very disturbing in that look, though I couldn't put any of my remaining fingers on it. But the game had gone on long enough. And I didn't think my stomach or my heart could take another Northside cab chase.

I went in to The Neon Cafe.