The Anonymous Client

table. In the far corner. It’s the only party of one man and two women that’s even in the ballpark. Gotta be them.”
    “Gotta be. You spot the detectives?”
    “No, and I don’t want to look around for ’em. Where are they?”
    “Look over my right shoulder. The two bored businessmen at the table by the wall—those are Miltner’s men. And then the table to the left. The two rather drunk out-of-town buyer types, trying to talk the blonde into calling a friend—those are mine. The blonde’s one of their wives. They brought her along for cover.”
    “And for dinner,” Steve said. “You know, the more expenses I run up on this thing, the more tempting it’s gonna be to keep that retainer.” Steve picked up the menu. “So what’s good here?”
    “Well,” Taylor said. “You can get a steak or a lobster if you want, but the best bet is a hamburger.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Not at all.”
    Steve looked at him. “Here you are, so worried you’re gonna get sent back to the office and wind up eating a hamburger, and then what do you want to order? A hamburger.”
    “Hey, there are hamburgers and there are hamburgers. The one in the paper bag is cold and soggy and small. The hamburger here is a half a pound of chopped meat served hot in a basket of fries with your choice of bacon, avocado, Swiss cheese or what have you on top. Trust me.”
    The waiter returned with the drinks, and they ordered hamburgers. As the waiter left with the order, Steve looked over Mark Taylor’s shoulder and said, “One of Miltner’s men is getting up.”
    Taylor watched as the man walked by, went out the door and down the stairs. “Pay phone’s down there. Probably spotted us, and he’s phoning in.”
    “Right,” Steve said. “The report will read that, during dinner the surveillance of the subject was joined by Mark Taylor himself, in the company of a longhaired hippie freak.”
    Taylor grinned. “I would imagine that would piss off their client.”
    “It ought to,” Steve said. “And wouldn’t it be particularly nice if that client happened to be David C. Bradshaw?”
    “You think it is?”
    “It stands to reason. Bradshaw’s scum. The girl’s class. I can’t imagine her associating with him unless he’s got something on her. If he does, he probably hired detectives to get it.”
    “Probably right,” Taylor said, He stood up. “Excuse me a minute. One of my men’s heading for the bathroom. Time for me to slip him the car keys.”
    Taylor went out the door and down the stairs.
    Left alone, Steve Winslow took the chance to size up the occupants of the far table. The girl who had called on Bradshaw was younger and prettier than the other woman. Steve placed her age at around twenty-three or twenty-four. The fact that she had called on Bradshaw in the afternoon, and then spent a leisurely day shopping, indicated that she was obviously not a working girl, but a woman of independent means.
    The couple was different. The man was a nine-to-fiver. His suit, slightly wilted from a long day’s work, indicated that he had come to dinner straight from the office. The purposeful aggressiveness in the man’s demeanor led Steve to speculate that his occupation was insurance, advertising, or real estate.
    His wife seemed older than the other girl. She was thinner, more angular, and seemed more sophisticated. Her makeup, though impeccable, seemed severe. The general impression Steve got was cold and catty.
    Mark Taylor came back, sat down and took a slug of bourbon. “No food yet?” he said. “I’m starving.”
    “I think this is it coming now,” Steve said.
    The waiter stopped at their table and put the huge hamburgers in front of them. “You Mr. Taylor?” he said.
    Taylor groaned. “Oh shit. That’s timing. Phone call, right?”
    “At the desk.”
    Taylor glanced ruefully at the basket of burger and fries, then pushed back his chair, got up and went to the cashier’s booth, and took the phone.
    He was back in a minute. He sat down, picked up his burger, and took a huge bite.
    “What’s up?” Steve said.
    “Bradshaw went out.”
    “How?”
    “In a taxi.”
    “Got him covered?”
    “I’ll say. I’ve got two cars on him this time. We’ve got him bracketed, one car in front of the taxi, and one car behind. He may know he’s being followed, but there won’t be anything he can do about it.”
    “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mark. Bradshaw’s tricky.”
    “Sure he’s tricky, but