Angels in Heaven

sent a silent message to a certain switchboard
operator south of the border telling him not to hold his breath while he waited
for the rest of his dinero.
    I was somewhat soothed to find a
couple of checks in the mail: one was for the successful tracing of a missing
person, a husband, whom I’d found living with a dental technician three blocks
away from his former home; and the other was a final payment for a surveillance
I’d carried out for a local bank on one of its employees who was about to be
promoted. There was also a note from J. J. saying he’d called a couple of times
getting no answer and what was going down, was I making any progress? No, was
the answer. The fall catalogue from Remington & Co. I put away for
later, the latest junk mail from Reader’s Digest I chucked out
immediately, figuring my word power didn’t need increasing all that much and
even if it did, Reader’s Digest wasn’t going to help.
    When I was halfway done with the
mail, I thought I’d better put a modicum of energy into assisting J. J. with
his predicament, so I gave his hotel a ring, but he was out. I left a message
saying V. Daniel had called and was expecting positive results any day now.
Then I tried Lt. Carstairs again, down at South Station, and he was out too,
but if I left a number, he’d call back. I left a number. I checked on my three
long-term security clients, John D. (Valley Bowl), Arnie (Arnie’s New
& Used Cars), and Mrs. Beloni (Star Family Grocery); all were pleased
to hear from me, but none had any. problems for once.
    I turned the face of the world’s most
expensive paperweight to the wall. I answered a query from an ex-client in Carson City who wanted to know if I knew anyone trustworthy in my line of work in London, England. No, was the answer. Not only didn’t I know anyone at all in London, except the queen, I was hard-pressed to think of anyone anywhere in my line of work
who I would deem trustworthy.
    A lady from Palos Verdes, which is
south of here, out past LAX, wanted to know my rates per hour, day, week, and
month. I told her, adding that in some special cases they could be subject to
moderation, i.e., I was willing to make a deal if it was a slow day.
    Lt. Carstairs called back. He sounded
busy. I explained briefly who I was and told him I needed a fast line on Goose Berry, if he would be so kind.
    He didn’t want to be so kind.
    I mentioned my brother’s name,
current duty, station, and rank. The lieutenant unbent enough to tell me as far
as he was concerned, quote, Goose is nothing but a piker and I only roust him
when I have nothing more important to do, like chasing kiddy-car thieves,
unquote. I asked him if Goose had any heavy connections. Carstairs said I had
to be kidding. I asked him if the LKA down on East St. in Anaheim that Sneezy
had given me for Goose was still correct; the lieutenant told me without
looking it up it was, and was there anything else, as he had four hours of
paperwork to do before noon and it was already eleven? I said no, thanked him,
and hung up.
    I got back on to John D., lanky prop,
of the Valley Bowl, to ask him if I could borrow his office for an hour someday
soon. He said what was the matter with my own. Termites, I said. In that case,
he said, be my guest, as long as it’s for something illegal or fun or both.
    I looked up Goose’s phone number in
the book, tried him and found him home, which didn’t surprise me all that much,
as lowlifes like Goose are more familiar with night owls than early birds.
    “Mr. Berry,” I said in my movie
gangster voice. “You don’t know me but my name is Ace. I’m a friend of J. J.’s
and let me tell you, pal, you sure put the fear of God into one poor fish with
that postcard you sent him.”
    “J. J. who?” Goose said guardedly in
an accent that in a pinch I’d say was Chicago, East Side.
    “The J. J.,” I said, “who is a friend
of mine and who would be calling you himself if he didn’t have to be extra
careful these days about the company he keeps.”
    “Oh, yeah?” the Goose said.
    “If I wasn’t a pal of his,” I said,
“how would I know about you?”
    “So?”
    “So how about setting up a meet, you
and me, in a couple of days, to come to some kind of suitable arrangement? The
last thing J. J. needs right now is someone bringing up all that old shit, and
he’s willing to put his money where his dentures are for a one-time-only
buy-out. He’s no fool, he’s got a chance for some really