The Big Enchilada

After a couple of transfers I reached Adrian Sweet’s secretary. He was in conference, his line was busy, he was on holiday, he was not to be disturbed. Very protective, these secretaries, but I kept insisting. Finally she agreed to take my name.
    “Just tell him I heard he was interested in photography,” I said, “and that I’m a dealer with some curious specimens he’d want to see.”
    She wasn’t very happy about that, but agreed to pass on the message. Almost immediately a nervous-sounding voice came on the line.
    “Who is this and what do you want?”
    I told him I had some pictures that I found amusing, but that others might not appreciate. He denied any knowledge of what I was talking about, and I had to threaten him a bit.
    He groaned. “Oh God! Another one. What do you want?”
    “Look, Mr. Sweet, I’ve got some idea about the problems you’re having, and I may be able to help you, but I’ve got to see you, and soon. If you’re not interested, I’ll just send the pictures to some parties who may be.”
    He didn’t sound thrilled by the prospect, but he agreed to meet me for lunch at the Pheasant d’Or.
    Soon after I hung up, I heard the knob of the front door turn, but the door was locked. There was a soft knock. I figured it was Vicki or Ricki or whatever, back for more. Christ, what a nuisance.
    I crossed the room and opened the door about a foot. I saw two hefty men standing there. The one in the front put his arm through the door and stuck a gun in my face. Shit! I hadn’t even had my second cup of coffee.
    I just stood there, trying to look surprised and frightened, and suddenly I slammed the door with all my force. I caught his wrist between the door and the jamb. I heard a loud crack that wasn’t the door breaking. The gun dropped out of the hand and there was a scream of pain. I yanked open the door, grabbed the guy’s arm, pulled him in, and flipped him over my back. He hit the floor hard enough to rattle the windows.
    I turned around and the second one was racing in, reaching under his jacket for a gun. I didn’t hesitate but threw a punch at his jaw with the full weight of my body behind it. From the way it went all soft at impact, I knew I had shattered his jaw. He flew through the air a few feet. As he hit the floor, a spray of blood came out of his mouth, followed by three or four teeth.
    The first one was starting to groan and sit up. I jumped on top of him, knocking him back down. I put my hand at his throat and was just about to crush his windpipe when I heard a voice behind me.
    “All right, Hunter, that won’t be necessary.”
    I turned around and saw a large man with a dark tan. He was dressed in an expensive beige summer suit and wore a high-quality Panama. He was smoking a ten-inch cigar. He looked like an ad for a Caribbean resort.
    “I’m Ratchitt of Vice,” he said.
    “And what’s this garbage?” I motioned to the two bodies.
    “Just a couple of my boys.”
    “They make a nice entrance. Didn’t anyone ever teach them to identify themselves? If they had, I could have saved them some doctor bills. On the other hand, I just might have killed them if I’d known they were vice cops.”
    He laughed, briefly and coldly. “I guess it’s my fault. I told them you were a tough guy and that you might not be too keen to talk to us. I guess they were a little too enthusiastic.”
    “It happens. No harm done.”
    He laughed again and looked disgustedly at the two cops. The one with the broken wrist was sitting up and staring stupidly around.
    “Benson, get yourself out of here, and take Phillips with you.”
    The one with the broken wrist struggled to his feet. With his good arm he took the arm of the other one and dragged him through the door. I heard a few thumps that must have been Phillips’s head hitting the steps as they went downstairs. Ratchitt shut the front door.
    “Hunter, we’ve got a few things to talk about.”
    “Fine. What’ll it be? The weather? Or the declining quality of those who are making law enforcement their profession?”
    “Don’t try to be smart, Hunter. You don’t make it.”
    I hoped I looked suitably abashed.
    “I’ll tell you just this time,” he said. “Stay away from the Black Knight Club. You are impeding an important police investigation.”
    “Is that what I’m impeding?” I shrugged. “It’s okay with me if that’s what you want to call it, but I would’ve thought there were more precise terms—bribery,