Part 10 (1/2)
”TV detectives never suffer heartburn, dandruff, or the heartbreak of psoriasis.”
”Mr. Pollard,” Julie said, ”I'm sure Mr. Karaghiosis has explained to you that strictly speaking we aren't private detectives.”
”Yes.”
”We're security consultants. We primarily work with corporations and private inst.i.tutions. We have eleven employees with sophisticated skills and years of security experience, which is a lot different from the one-man PI fantasies on TV. We don't shadow men's wives to see if they're being unfaithful, and we don't do divorce work or any of the other things that people usually come to private detectives for.”
”Mr. Karaghiosis explained that to me,” Pollard said, looking down at his hands, which were clenched on his thighs.
From the sofa to the left of the desk, Clint Karaghiosis said, ”Frank told me his story, and I really think you ought to h why he needs us.” Julie noted that Clint had used the would-be client's first name, which he had never done before during six years with Dakota & Dakota.
Clint was solidly built-five foot eight, hundred and sixty pounds. He looked as though he had on been an inanimate a.s.semblage of chunks of granite and stone marble, flint and field stone, slate and iron and lodesto which some alchemist had trans.m.u.ted into living flesh.
broad countenance, though handsome enough, also looked if it had been chiseled from rock. In a search for a sign of weariness in his face, one could say only that, though strong, so features were not as strong as others. He had a rocklike personality too: steady, reliable, imperturbable. Few people i pressed Clint, and fewer still pierced his reserve and elicit more than a polite, businesslike response from him.
Hint of the client's first name seemed to be a subtle expression of sympathy for Pollard and a vote of confidence in the truthfulness of whatever tale the man had to tell.
”If Clint thinks this is something for us, that's good enough for me,”
Bobby said.
”What's your problem, Frank?” Julie was not impressed that Bobby had used the client's first name so immediately, casually. Bobby liked everyone he met at least until they emphatically proved themselves unworthy of being liked. In fact, you had to stab him in the back repeatedly, virtually giggling with malice, before he would finally a regretfully consider the possibility that maybe he shouldn't like you.
Sometimes she thought she had married a big puppy that was pretending to be human.
Before Pollard could begin, Julie said, ”One thing, first.
we decide to accept your case-and I stress the if-we are cheap.”
”That's no problem,” Pollard said. He lifted a leather flight bag from the floor at his feet. It was one of two he'd brought with him. He put it on his lap and unzippered it. He withdrew a couple of packs of currency and put them on the desk. Twenties and hundreds.
As Julie took the money to inspect it, Bobby pushed away from the windowsill and went to Pollard's side. He look down into the flight bag and said, ”It's crammed full.”
”One hundred and forty thousand dollars,” Pollard said Upon quick inspection, the money on the desk did not appear to be counterfeit.
Julie pushed it aside and said, ”Mr. Pollard, are you in the habit of carrying so much cash?”
”I don't know,” Pollard said.
”You don't know?”
”I don't know,” he repeated miserably.
”He literally doesn't know,”
Clint said.
”Hear him out.” In a voice at once subdued yet heavy with emotion, Pollard said, ”You've got to help me find out where I go at night. What in G.o.d's name am I doing when I should be sleeping?”
”Hey, this sounds interesting,” Bobby said, sitting down on one corner of Julie's desk.
Bobby's boyish enthusiasm made Julie nervous. He might commit them to Pollard before they knew enough to be sure that it was wise to take the case. She also didn't like him sitting on her desk. It just didn't seem businesslike. She felt that it gave the prospective client an impression of amateurism.
From the sofa, Clint said, ”Should I start the tape?”
”Definitely,”
Bobby said.
Clint was holding a compact, battery-powered tape recorder. He flicked the switch and set the recorder on the coffee table in front of the sofa, with the built-in microphone aimed at Pollard, Julie, and Bobby.
The slightly chubby, round-faced man looked up at them. The rings of bluish skin around his eyes, the watery redness of the eyes themselves, and the paleness of his lips belied any image of robust health to which his ruddy cheeks might have lent credence. A hesitant smile flickered across his mouth. He met Julie's eyes for no more than a second, looked down at his hands again. He seemed frightened, beaten, altogether pitiable. In spite of herself she felt a pang of sympathy for him.
As Pollard began to speak, Julie sighed and slumped back in her chair.
Two minutes later, she was leaning forward again, listening intently to Pollard's soft voice. She did not want to be fascinated, but she was.
Even phlegmatic Clint Karaghiosis, hearing the story for the second time, was obviously captivated by it.
If Pollard was not a liar or a raving lunatic-and most likely he was both-then he was caught up in events of an almost supernatural nature.
Julie did not believe in the SUPERNATURAL.
She tried to remain skeptical, but Pollard's demeanor and dent conviction persuaded her against her will.
Bobby began making holy-jeez-gosh-wow sounds and slurping the desk in astonishment at the revelation of each twist in the tale. When the client- No. Pollard. Not ”the client.” He wasn't their client yet. Pollard. When Pollard told them about waking in a motel room Thursday afternoon, blood on his hands, Bobby blurted, ”We'll take the case!”
”Bobby, wait,” Julie said.
”We haven't heard everything Mr. Pollard came here to tell us. We shouldn't-”
”Yeah, Frank,” Bobby said, ”what the h.e.l.l happened the Julie said, ”What I mean is, we have to hear his whole story before we can possibly know whether or not we can help him ”Oh, we can help him, all right,” Bobby said.
”We-”
”Bobby,” she said firmly, ”could I see you alone for a moment?” She got up, crossed the office, opened the door to adjoining bathroom, and turned on the light in there.
Bobby said, ”Be right back, Frank.” He followed Julie i the bathroom, closing the door behind them.
She switched on the ceiling exhaust fan to help m.u.f.fle the voices, and spoke in a whisper.
”What's wrong with you?
”Well, I have flat feet, no arches at all, and I've got that mole in the middle of my back.”
”You're impossible.”
”Flat feet and a mole are too many faults for you to hand You're a hard woman.” The room was small. They were standing between the sink and the toilet, almost nose to nose. He kissed her forehead ”Bobby, for G.o.d's sake, you just told Pollard we'll take case. Maybe we won't.”
”Why wouldn't we? It's fascinating.”