K Is for Killer

murmured.
    Lester seemed to bounce on his heels, ill at ease, staring after Cheney as he moved over to the desk.
    I thought I ought to break the ice. "You're Danielle's personal manager?"
    "That's right. Lester Dudley," he said, holding out his hand.
    I shook hands with him despite my reluctance to make physical contact. "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "I'm a friend of hers." When you need information, you can't afford to let personal repugnance stand in your way.
    He was saying, "Clerk's giving me a hard time, wouldn't give me information even after I explained who I was. Probably one of those women's liberation types."
    "No doubt."
    "How's she doing? Poor kid. I heard she really got the shit kicked out of her. Some crackaholic probably did it. They're mean sonsa bitches."
    "The doctor left before I had a chance to talk to him," I said. "Maybe the clerk was under orders not to give out information."
    "Hey, not her. She was having way too much fun. Enjoying herself at my expense. Not that it bothers me. I'm always taking flak from these women's libber types. Can you believe they're still around? I thought they gave it up by now, but no such luck. Here just last week, this bunch of ball busters? Came down on me like a ton of bricks, claimed I was engaged in white slavery. Do you believe that? What a crock. How can they be talking about white slavery when half my girls are black?"
    "You're being too literal. I think you miss the point," I said.
    "Here's the point," he said. "These girls make good money. We're talking big bucks, megadollars. Where these girls going to get employment opportunities like this? They got no education. Half of 'em's got IQs in double digits. You don't hear them whining. Do they complain? No way. They're living like queens. I'll tell you something else. This bunch of ball busters isn't offering a damn thing. No jobs, no training, not even public assistance. How concerned could they be? These girls have to earn a living. You want to hear what I told 'em? I said, 'Ladies, this is business. I don't create the market. It's supply and demand.' Girls provide goods and services, and that's all it is. You think they care? You know what it's about? Sexual repression. Male-bashing bunch of fuzz-bumpers. They hate guys, hate to see anyone get their jollies with the opposite sex...."
    "Or," said I, "they might object to the idea of anyone exploiting young girls. Just a wild guess on my part."
    "Well, if that's their position, what's the beef?" he asked. "I feel the same way as them. But they treat me like the enemy, that's what I don't get. My girls are clean and well protected, and that's the truth."
    "Danielle was well protected?"
    "Of course not," he said, exasperated that I was being so dense. "She shoulda listened to me. I told her, 'Don't take guys home.' I told her, 'Don't do a guy without I'm outside the door.' That's my job. This is how I earn my percentage. I drive her when she goes on appointments. No crazy's going to lay a hand on her if she's got an escort, for cripe's sake. She don't call, I can't help. It's as simple as that."
    "Maybe it's time she got out of the life," I said.
    "That what she's saying, and I go, 'Hey, that's up to you.' Nobody forces my girls to stay in. She wants out, that's her business. I'd have to ask how she's going to earn a living..." He let that one trail, his voice tinged with skepticism.
    "Meaning what? I'm not following."
    "I'm just trying to picture her working in a department store, waitressing, something like that. Minimum-wage-type job. Beat-up like that, it'd be tough, of course, but as long as she don't mind coming down in the world, who am I to object? You got scars on your face, might be a trick to get employment."
    "Nobody's said anything about facial scars," I said. "Where'd you get that idea?"
    "Oh. Well, I just assumed. Word on the street is she got busted up bad. Naturally, I thought, you know, some unfortunate facial involvement. It's a pity, of course, but a lot of guys try to do that, interfere with a poor girl's ability to make a living, undercut their confidence, and shit like that."
    Cheney reappeared, his gaze shifting with curiosity from Lester's face to mine. "Everything okay?"
    "Sure, fine," I said tersely.
    "We're just talking business," Lester said. "I never did hear how Danielle is. She going to be all right?"
    "Time to go," Cheney said to him. "We'll walk you out to your "Hey, sure thing. Where they got her, up in orthopedics? I could send