Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

his office near the casino late in the day; he finished transcribing his notes to his computer, shut the laptop, bent over and reached into his bottom drawer for the bottle of scotch and glass he kept there. When he straightened up, a little man was standing in the doorway to the small reception area, holding a suitcase in one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
    “Excuse me, please,” the man said. He was harmless-looking, sixtyish, maybe older, dressed in a black suit and wearing a fedora. “May I speak with you for a moment, Mr. Katz? About some business?”
    Harry couldn’t place the accent: something foreign with some New York in it. “Have a seat,” he said, waving him to a chair in front of the desk. “Would you like a drink?” He held up the bottle.
    “Thank you, perhaps a little later, after I have stated my proposition.”
    “Suit yourself,” Harry said. He poured himself two fingers and took a sip.
    The little man set down his suitcase next to his chair and bent over, out of Harry’s sight. Harry heard the snap of the locks opening, and when the man straightened, he was holding a pistol equipped with a silencer in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. As if that weren’t alarming enough, he was also wearing surgical gloves.
    “Forgive me,” the man said, “but since I am not a strong person I would prefer it if you were temporarily immobilized while we talk.” He rolled the duct tape across the desk, and Harry caught it. “If you would please roll your chair from behind the desk.”
    “What’s this about?” Harry asked, not moving.
    “If I must I will shoot you a little.”
    Harry rolled his chair sideways, following the motions of the pistol from behind the desk.
    “Good. Please tape your feet to the bottom of your chair.”
    Harry did so, but not too tightly.
    “Good. Now, please tape your right hand to the arm of the chair.”
    Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do that would not get him shot, so he did so.
    The man got up, walked over to Harry, and placed the silencer to his head. “Now grip the arm of the chair with your left hand.”
    Harry did so, and the man tore off a piece of the tape with his other hand and his teeth, then taped Harry’s left hand to the chair.
    “Now,” the man said. He took a bundle of money from his case and placed it on the desk. “There is twenty thousand dollars,” he said. “I wish some information.”
    “Why didn’t you just ask?” Harry said.
    “Because I feared you would not tell me what I want to know. But now I will give you twenty thousand dollars to tell me where to find Mr. William Burnett.” The man set his pistol on the desk, reached into an inside pocket, and came up with a straight razor. He unfolded it. “And if you do not tell me everything I want to know, I will cut your throat. But not before I have caused you quite a lot of pain.”
    Harry’s insides turned to water, and he reasoned quickly. He might tell the man everything and earn the money, or he might tell him everything and still get his throat cut. It wasn’t much of a choice. “I’ll tell you what I know,” he said.
    The man folded the razor and set it on the desk beside the gun. “Please continue.”
    “There’s a pad and pencil on the desk, if you want to write this down,” Harry said.
    “That will not be necessary. I have an excellent memory. Now, please, I am becoming bored.”
    Harry recited the address in Santa Monica. “Mr. Burnett lives in that building in the penthouse—the top floor.”
    “With Charmaine?”
    “Yes, with Charmaine.”
    “And what security precautions has Mr. Burnett taken?”
    “I know of none. I have not visited the apartment. I found Charmaine shopping in Beverly Hills and followed her home. Later I saw the two of them leave the building. I bribed the superintendent to tell me which apartment they occupied.”
    “What else do you know?”
    “They are married. I found a record of their marriage at the Los Angeles County Clerk’s Office.”
    “Ah, I did not think to look there. You are a good skip tracer. Does Peter Barrington visit Mr. Burnett at his apartment?”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know that name.”
    The man picked up the razor and opened it.
    “Truly I do not know this Barrington. Who is he?”
    “A producer of movies.”
    “I know nothing of him and Burnett.”
    The man considered that. “Anything else? Last chance.”
    “Ask me anything you like.