Scam

If she hasn’t already, after you leave, that’s the first thing she’ll do. She’ll call the girl up, say, Hey, what’s with the guy in the singles bar? Then they’ll start talking it over, and before you know it they’ll make the connection both guys were six six.”
    “So they rush out and kill him?”
    “Hey,” Richard said. “Give me a break. Of course it sounds stupid when you say it like that. But say they make the connection and the agent decides to contact the guy. Well, that meeting is not necessarily an amicable one.”
    “So she shoots him.”
    Richard grimaced. Exhaled. “Any statement in the absence of fact is going to sound stupid. But it’s not illogical to assume that the actions of this agent or the girl or both resulted in your client’s death. Whether they actually shot him or not.”
    “Can you give me one good reason why they would?”
    “Shoot him?”
    “Yeah.”
    Richard shrugged. “I can give you several.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure. One: your client and the agent are in cahoots. He’s paid her a pile of money, but after talking to you she wants more. He won’t give it to her so she kills him.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    “Two: your client and the agent are lovers. When she finds out he has the hots for this topless dancer, she shoots him.”
    “Richard.”
    “Three: the bimbo is smuggling drugs in her hollowed-out silicone boobs. Your client stumbles upon this, becomes a liability and has to be eliminated.”
    “Richard,” I said. “Are you telling me we don’t have enough information?”
    Richard shook his head. “Boy. Talk about rocket scientists.”

25.
    I GOT BEEPED IN QUEENS at eleven-thirty that morning while photographing a pothole on Parson’s Boulevard. When I called in, Mary Mason told me the cops were looking for me. That did not bode well. Nor did the address she gave me, which I recognized as Shelly Daniels’ talent agency. This was not going to be my day.
    There were two cop cars parked outside. I pulled up behind them and got out. Two cops on the sidewalk, who appeared to be joking about the all-male movie theater whose marquee they were standing under, turned their attention to me. One pointed at my car and jerked his thumb—I had pulled up next to a hydrant.
    “I’m Stanley Hastings,” I said. “I was ordered to report to this address.”
    I couldn’t tell if that meant anything to the cops or not, but the taller of the two said, “Wait here,” and went into the building.
    “What’s up?” I asked the other cop.
    He just shrugged, but I could figure it out. I had ever since Mary Mason gave me the address. Why anyone would want to kill a poor, second-rate talent agent was beyond me, but apparently someone had. No wonder the cops wanted to see me. I was probably the last person to see her alive.
    The front door opened and Sergeant Belcher came out. Without any amenities he strode up to me and jerked his thumb. “You know whose place this is?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Why of course?”
    “I was here yesterday. I gave you the address.”
    “You were in the office yesterday?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Shelly Daniels’ office?”
    “Yeah. Shelly Daniels’ office. What happened to her?”
    Belcher’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think something happened to her?”
    “Are you kidding me? You pull me off the job in Queens and drag me in here. There’s cops all over the place. I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t think something had happened to her.”
    “Is that right?” Belcher said.
    “Yeah, that’s right. You want to play guessing games hoping I’ll crack, or you want to fill me in.”
    “Interesting,” Belcher said. “It’s your opinion that Shelly Daniels has met with foul play?”
    “Foul play?”
    “Huh?”
    “You really say foul play?”
    “What are you, a comedian? You really give a damn what we say? I’m asking you some questions here, and I expect some cooperation.”
    “Fine. I’m here to cooperate. Just tell me what you want.”
    “I want you to answer questions without kidding around. What makes you think this person has met with foul play?”
    “I told you. The fact you dragged me in here.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s not enough? What, are you telling me she’s alive? You want me to talk to the woman?”
    “I’ve had enough of your lip.”
    I shut up. That was not a question and required no answer, and if the man had had enough of my lip, anything I said was only going to make it worse.