Scam

1.
    “I ’M BEING SET UP.”
    I stifled a grin. Cranston Pritchert was six foot six and skinny as a rail, and when he said he was being set up, all I could think of was a candlepin on a bowling lane. Since the gentleman seemed to be upset, I figured grinning would have been an inappropriate reaction, and if questioned I certainly would not have wanted to explain. I bit my lip, tried not to smile.
    “Go on,” I said.
    Cranston Pritchert opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I don’t know where to begin.”
    “Begin at the end.”
    He looked at me. “Huh?”
    “If you’re having trouble telling your story, don’t bother. Start with the punch line. Why are you here?”
    That invitation did not put Cranston Pritchert at his ease. Anything but. His lip curled up slightly. “Yes, that’s so clever, isn’t it?” he said. “Is that what you tell all your clients?”
    It most certainly wasn’t. I don’t have any clients. At least not the kind Cranston Pritchert meant. See, I’m not the kind of private detective people immediately think of. The kind you see on TV. The kind who solve people’s problems by having fist fights and car chases and running around with flashy blondes.
    No, unfortunately, I’m the kind of private detective that exists in real life. The kind that does largely negligence work. I chase ambulance for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone. That consists mainly of interviewing accident victims and taking pictures of their broken arms and legs, not to mention the cracks in the sidewalk that tripped them.
    I doubt if that would have impressed Cranston Pritchert much.
    We were sitting in my office on West 47th Street, the one-room hole-in-the-wall affair with the sign STANLEY HASTINGS DETECTIVE AGENCY on the door. Cranston Pritchert had been waiting outside when I’d come by at nine o’clock to check the answering machine and pick up the mail. If he hadn’t been, he’d have missed me. I don’t hang out in the office much. By nine oh five I’d have been gone.
    “All right, look,” I said. “We’re off on the wrong foot here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve gotta go out on a case.”
    Pritchert blinked. “You already have a case?”
    “I do three or four cases a day.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Not at all. Ninety percent of detective work is routine. My ten o’clock case is a hit-and-run. I’ll take down all the pertinent information from the victim, turn it over to the lawyer, and I’m done.”
    “What about finding the car?”
    “That’s not my job.
    “What if the lawyer asked you to?”
    “He won’t.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he can file suit without it. They don’t need to catch the driver. It’s like a no-fault situation. Even if they don’t know who did it, they can still sue.”
    “I see.”
    “Now, I told you all about my business. You wanna tell me about yours? If not, I gotta run.”
    Cranston Pritchert stood up. He put up his hands, towered over me. “No, no,” he said. “Please. Even if you turn me down. Even if you can’t take the case. I gotta talk to somebody. Won’t you at least listen?”
    “I’m perfectly willing to listen,” I said. “You were just having trouble getting started and frankly I’m pressed for time.”
    “I understand,” Pritchert said. “I’m sorry. I promise. I’m not going to waste any more of your time. Just hear me out.”
    “Fine,” I said. “So, tell me. What’s your problem?”
    Pritchert dropped his hands to his sides. He pulled his chin in and stood there, stiff as a ramrod, as if at attention, looking more than ever like a candlepin.
    I looked at him, prayed he wouldn’t say it again.
    He did.
    “I’m being set up.”

2.
    E VENTUALLY I GOT THE STORY, but not before we’d gone around at least two more times. My query Who’s setting you up? might have led to promising ground, but merely provoked the response I don’t know. Similarly, How are you being set up? resulted in the deflection I’m not sure.
    It was a while before I stumbled on the old faithful Why don’t you tell me what happened? Which merely earned me a second helping of I don’t know where to begin.
    At which point I stood up, snapped shut my briefcase and headed for the door.
    He stopped me, apologized, and I finally got the story.
    “It’s my company,” he said, once we had both sat back down.
    “Your company?”
    “Yes. Philip Greenberg Investments.”
    “If it’s your company, why is it named Philip