Free Scam by Parnell Hall Page B

number, knock off the last digit, divide by two and add ten.
    I did, with an unexpected result.
    Shelly Daniels’ office was only three blocks away.
    How about that?
    Three blocks.
    And Cranston Pritchert wasn’t going to interview the woman. He only cared about her as a source to find the girl. Which was really narrow-minded thinking. Who cared what the girl had to say? I’d already heard her story, and there was nothing there. But this woman had actually met the guy. Talked to him face to face. She could describe who he was. Hell, she might even have a name. She’d at least know what the guy wanted and what the guy said. Not interview her? It simply made no sense.
    I mean, if Cranston Pritchert was going to be that much of a jerk.
    The thing was, I’d asked him if he wanted me to interview the woman, and he’d said not to bother. Which meant he wasn’t going to pay me for it. That was simple enough. If I did it, I wouldn’t get paid. Nobody works for nothing. That’s a given in this business. A guy would have to be a total schmuck.
    Still.
    Three-thirty in the afternoon. With no job to do. And the office just three blocks away.
    I shook my head to clear it.
    Snap out of it. You’re not thinking rationally. There’s no point going over there.
    You’d have to be a total schmuck.

18.
    I T WAS EXACTLY WHAT I EXPECTED. Which surprised me. But I guess even I can’t always be wrong. Anyway, Shelly Daniels might have had a luxurious suite of offices with a front desk manned by a grim but efficient-looking receptionist, but she didn’t. She had a hole in the wall on the second floor over an all-male movie theater.
    The sign on the door said SHELLY DANIELS TALENT AGENCY . The sign was hanging on a hook, which did not exactly inspire confidence, instead gave the impression the office was being rented by the hour.
    I pushed open the door and went in.
    The office was smaller than mine, and about as poorly furnished: one desk, one chair, a bookcase, and a couple of file cabinets.
    The woman at the desk looked tough as nails, a remarkable accomplishment for someone that short and thin. Her emaciated, sharp, angular face was topped by a beehive of teased red hair. She had wing-tipped glasses on her nose, a pencil behind her ear, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
    The cigarette was not her first. A full ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter were on the desk in front of her. The stench of stale tobacco permeated the office, and a smoggy haze hung in the air.
    The woman was on the phone when I walked in.
    “You heard me,” she said. “You want a hooker, you call somewhere else. You want dancers, you want models, you want show girls, that’s fine. This is not an escort service. We’re not selling sex. You call up and bitch the girl didn’t come across, you’re talking to my deaf ear.” She slammed down the phone, scowled up at me. “What can I do for you?”
    It occurred to me there were a number of approaches I could take with the woman, and most of them weren’t going to fly.
    I pulled out my ID, opened it.
    She put up her hand, scowled again. “Hey, hey, didn’t you hear me on the phone? I run a legitimate operation here, no funny business.”
    “Relax,” I said. “I’m not a cop.”
    She frowned. “Huh?”
    “It’s not a badge, just an ID. I’m a private detective. I need some information.”
    She frowned, squinted at the ID. “Then why the hell didn’t you say so? You come in here, flip that open, all dramatic like some detective on TV.” She cocked her head. “You an actor?”
    “Actually, I used to be.”
    She pointed her finger. “See? I can tell. It’s the eye. I can always spot ’em. You lookin’ for work? No, of course not. You’re a detective. What was it you say you wanted?”
    “I need some information.”
    “Why would you want information from me?”
    “Are you Shelly Daniels?”
    “Is that the information you want?”
    “It’s a start. Actually, it’s about your