gathered up some papers and went in to drop the name to her boss in privacy. When she returned, she said Mr. Haskell was very busy today and as it happened, he'd never heard of Edward Jones.
"In other words, I should get lost."
The smile bloomed again, twenty-four karat this time. "You got it, buster."
A black Cadillac was sitting at the curb when I walked out of the building into the California sunshine. Behind the wheel was a uniformed chauffeur with a face like a second-story man.
I leaned down to speak to him when I passed the Caddy. "You shouldn't wear a tailored uniform. It makes the bulge under your arm stand out like a bump on a tire."
He grinned and patted the bulge. "That's where I carry my references."
I parked a half-block away and waited. The chauffeur had obviously come to pick Haskell up. Within ten minutes, a rotund man who looked as if he was carrying a watermelon under his coat appeared and got into the car.
When the Caddy passed, I fell in behind it. Our destination turned out to be a swank country club in the suburbs. The fat man was a golfer. I spent most of the afternoon watching him through binoculars. He had a drive like an old woman. I was the victim of an advanced case of boredom by the time he finally trudged back to the clubhouse.
It was time for me to make a move. I put up the binoculars and walked to the parking lot. Moving behind a row of automobiles, I came up behind the chauffeur, who was leaning against the Caddy's hood with his arms folded.
"Hey," I said softly.
He whipped around and I drove a hard right into his solar plexus. I yanked him between two cars so that we wouldn't attract attention and hit him again. His eyes rolled like marbles and his fumbling hand slid limply away from his jacket buttons.
"Let's see your references," I said and gave the jacket a hard pull. Buttons rained against the side of the Cadillac. I extracted the .38 from the holster under his arm.
"Now we're going to wait for your boss," I told him.
When Haskell emerged from the clubhouse, the chauffeur was sitting stiffly behind the steering wheel. His posture was due to the gun I had punched into the back of his neck.
"Max, what's the matter with you?" Haskell asked as he drew near.
"His belly hurts," I said. I shoved the right-hand car door open with my foot. "Get in, Mr. Haskell."
The fat man peered into the back seat at me. He had a smooth golf course tan, but at the moment he looked a little pale. "This doesn't speak well for your judgment," he blustered. "I am a man of some influence."
I had been waiting a long time and impatience was prodding me. "Get into the car, Mr. Haskell, or I'll spill some of your chauffeur's blood on these expensive leather seats."
He eased into the car and settled back with a grunt. Lacing his pudgy fingers together, he said, "You'd better have a very good excuse for this impetuous action."
"Success breeds overconfidence, Mr. Haskell," I said. "I'm not a cheap hood and I don t give a damn how important you think you are."
His small eyes shifted uneasily, but he maintained his poise. "I assume you're the man who claims to be a friend of Edward Jones."
"I didn't say I was his friend. I said I knew him. What I want from you is some information on where to find Mr. Jones."
"We never exchanged addresses."
I saw no reason to handle Haskell with kid gloves. Despite the chauffered Cadillac and his carpeted office and his country club membership, he was no more than a sophisticated mobster. I brought the barrel of the revolver down on his kneecap. The sharp blow drew a gasp of pain.
"Who the hell are you?" he wanted to know.
"I'm the man who asked you a question about Edward Jones."
"He hasn't been in L.A. in months. I haven't had a deal with him in longer than that."
"Who works with Jones? He has a couple of friends he uses on his jobs. I want to know their names."
He grimaced and rubbed his knee. "If you were as well acquainted with the man as I am, you wouldn't be
"In other words, I should get lost."
The smile bloomed again, twenty-four karat this time. "You got it, buster."
A black Cadillac was sitting at the curb when I walked out of the building into the California sunshine. Behind the wheel was a uniformed chauffeur with a face like a second-story man.
I leaned down to speak to him when I passed the Caddy. "You shouldn't wear a tailored uniform. It makes the bulge under your arm stand out like a bump on a tire."
He grinned and patted the bulge. "That's where I carry my references."
I parked a half-block away and waited. The chauffeur had obviously come to pick Haskell up. Within ten minutes, a rotund man who looked as if he was carrying a watermelon under his coat appeared and got into the car.
When the Caddy passed, I fell in behind it. Our destination turned out to be a swank country club in the suburbs. The fat man was a golfer. I spent most of the afternoon watching him through binoculars. He had a drive like an old woman. I was the victim of an advanced case of boredom by the time he finally trudged back to the clubhouse.
It was time for me to make a move. I put up the binoculars and walked to the parking lot. Moving behind a row of automobiles, I came up behind the chauffeur, who was leaning against the Caddy's hood with his arms folded.
"Hey," I said softly.
He whipped around and I drove a hard right into his solar plexus. I yanked him between two cars so that we wouldn't attract attention and hit him again. His eyes rolled like marbles and his fumbling hand slid limply away from his jacket buttons.
"Let's see your references," I said and gave the jacket a hard pull. Buttons rained against the side of the Cadillac. I extracted the .38 from the holster under his arm.
"Now we're going to wait for your boss," I told him.
When Haskell emerged from the clubhouse, the chauffeur was sitting stiffly behind the steering wheel. His posture was due to the gun I had punched into the back of his neck.
"Max, what's the matter with you?" Haskell asked as he drew near.
"His belly hurts," I said. I shoved the right-hand car door open with my foot. "Get in, Mr. Haskell."
The fat man peered into the back seat at me. He had a smooth golf course tan, but at the moment he looked a little pale. "This doesn't speak well for your judgment," he blustered. "I am a man of some influence."
I had been waiting a long time and impatience was prodding me. "Get into the car, Mr. Haskell, or I'll spill some of your chauffeur's blood on these expensive leather seats."
He eased into the car and settled back with a grunt. Lacing his pudgy fingers together, he said, "You'd better have a very good excuse for this impetuous action."
"Success breeds overconfidence, Mr. Haskell," I said. "I'm not a cheap hood and I don t give a damn how important you think you are."
His small eyes shifted uneasily, but he maintained his poise. "I assume you're the man who claims to be a friend of Edward Jones."
"I didn't say I was his friend. I said I knew him. What I want from you is some information on where to find Mr. Jones."
"We never exchanged addresses."
I saw no reason to handle Haskell with kid gloves. Despite the chauffered Cadillac and his carpeted office and his country club membership, he was no more than a sophisticated mobster. I brought the barrel of the revolver down on his kneecap. The sharp blow drew a gasp of pain.
"Who the hell are you?" he wanted to know.
"I'm the man who asked you a question about Edward Jones."
"He hasn't been in L.A. in months. I haven't had a deal with him in longer than that."
"Who works with Jones? He has a couple of friends he uses on his jobs. I want to know their names."
He grimaced and rubbed his knee. "If you were as well acquainted with the man as I am, you wouldn't be
Similar Books
The Hero Strikes Back
Moira J. Moore
Days of Love and Blood
R.S. Carter
Domination
Lyra Byrnes
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3
Melissa Scott
Recoil
Brian Garfield
As Night Falls
Jenny Milchman
Steamy Sisters
Jennifer Kitt
Full Circle
Connie Monk
Forgotten Alpha
Joanna Wilson
Scars and Songs
Christine Zolendz, Frankie Sutton, Okaycreations