Free A City Called July by Howard Engel Page A

face: a high forehead and clear eyes, focused on the patched window.
    “You’re a son of a bitch, Mr. Cooperman, whatever you say. If this was my house, I’d show you your way out faster than I can think of my own name. Ever get the feeling that you’re not liked, not wanted?”
    “Sure, it goes with the territory. Look, I’m as sensitive as the next guy, but my business is your business as long as the community is paying the shot. I know that doesn’t give me special privileges, and my nose gets slammed in the door often enough for me to wonder if I maybe shouldn’t open up a ladies’ ready-to-wear like my old man did. But as long as I’m taking people’s money as an investigator, I’ll have to go on getting my nose slammed. At least it’s better than getting shot at in a big city. Here at least you sometimes get asked in for a cup of tea or coffee.”
    “You’re the strangest man.”
    “I’m just out to make a living.”
    “But your being here is tantamount to an accusation that my sister was involved in this dirty business with her husband.”
    “It’s happened before.”
    “Not with Ruthie, it hasn’t. I mean, God, just look at her.”
    “Sure. I’m as susceptible as the next man to appearances. What would you have me do? I can’t flash his picture to every airline ticket agent in the country.”
    “Well, you could try asking the local ones, at least.”
    “The cops have done all of that, I can’t compete with the cops. I’m a one-man band.”
    “Elastic band and broken. Sorry. I just don’t trust people, I guess. I m not used to strangers.”
    “Look, in your place, I wouldn’t want me around either. What would you do in my position?”
    “I know that’s not meant as a trick question, Mr. Cooperman, but I can’t help you. Maybe you should leave it to the police and Interpol.”
    “Maybe I should. I didn’t bid on this case, you know.”
    “Don’t you ever think of the cunning it took to pull off what Larry did? Don’t you ever get a sneaking admiration for the criminals you go after?”
    “Mrs. Geller, I’m just a beat-up divorce peeper. Except for a few odd cases, I’ve never been on a case where anybody got much of what they were looking for. Most of the time they were so worried about being found out, they didn’t have time to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. That’s the truth. So, I don’t imagine that I’m ever going to become jealous of some poor guy who has to hide under a false name and run around frightened of his own shadow. Now, from what I know about your brother-in-law, he was a smart man. Maybe you imagine him having the horse-laugh on the rest of us. But I doubt it. Every time a phone rings, he shudders. Every time there’s a knock on the door, he gets sweaty palms. But, you’ll tell me he has all that money. Well, I wonder. How much of it can be flashed in public without getting people suspicious? If it’s in securities, the cops will find him; if it’s in cash, he has to take a chance every time he crosses a border.”
    “What about those famous numbered bank accounts in Switzerland?”
    “Mrs. Geller, your brother-in-law could have spent two million just setting up a deal like that. You’re talking big money, political money, exchequer and treasury money. Larry’s robbed a bunch of geriatrics in Grantham, Ontario. He’s in the Little League. He only hurt a bunch of old-timers. He didn’t knock off a bank or run over the premier’s dog. A case like this has a lot of local people hot about it, and the cops are going to do their best to find him. I’m going to do my best to find him. But it isn’t going to rate a column inch in Vancouver or Montreal. There aren’t any votes riding on Larry Geller.”
    “So what can you do? What can a single private investigator accomplish?”
    “Nothing, maybe. Maybe something better than that. Maybe I’ll figure some angle that nobody’s thought of before.”
    “Like what?”
    “Oh, like, maybe, and I’m