Free Cinderella by Ed McBain Page A

foredeck of a sleek Constellation with his fat brother Jimmy Legs the Accountant in his polyester suit, wondered if maybe she had killed Samalson. Because suppose Samalson was getting close? And suppose she knew this was something more than a solid gold Rolex, this was something could get a pretty girl's face rearranged in a way you'd never recognize her again. And suppose she knew the minute Samalson zeroed in she'd be having company who didn't want to hear no shit about what a big gorgeous cock you got, honey. It was possible. Desperate people did desperate things.
        "You want me to go on the earie?" his brother asked.
        "What?" Larkin said.
        "You want me to listen around, see I can get a line on her? Bust her fuckin' head and get the watch back for you?"
        "You've got other things to do," Larkin said.
        "No, I ain't too busy just now," Jimmy said. "You want me to, or not?"
        "Well, I'd like to find her," Larkin said.
        "Then consider it done," Jimmy said. "What's her name?"
        "Angela West. That's the name she gave me. But I don't think that's her real name."
        "You got a picture of her?"
        "I gave it to Samalson."
        "Then tell me what she looks like."
        "Blonde hair, blue eyes, about five feet nine inches tall."
        "How old?"
        "Twenty-two, twenty-three. Tits out to here, legs that won't quit…"
        "They'll quit when I find her," Jimmy said.
        
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        What he told her, he said there was dope in the house there.
        Coke in the house, he said it had to be worth on the street something like seven hundred and fifty K. Six kilos of pure, something like that. This customer of his had seen them- half a dozen of those white plastic bags-when he opened the safe. Well, seven including the one that was already open and on the dresser. Figure he'd already used a few bags, or sold them off, whatever, so say there were still four in the house, maybe three, shit, even two would make it worthwhile.
        You came away with two kilos of pure, that was a bit more than seventy ounces, you stepped on it till you got it to street strength, you could ask a hundred and a quarter a gram. Something like twenty-eight grams to the ounce, you multiplied that by your seventy ounces, you got nineteen hundred and sixty grams times a hundred and twenty-five bucks, you came away with two hundred and forty-five thousand bucks, almost a quarter of a million, that's if there was only two kilos in the house.
        You could add, say, another hundred and a quarter, give or take, for every kilo you came away with. Come out of there with four kilos, for example, you had half a million bucks right there in your hand. You were talking two point two pounds per kilo. You were talking carrying eight, ten pounds the most in your tote bag when you left the house. Walk away with it, disappear in the night.
        She told him it sounded dangerous.
        Also, how did he know this customer of his wasn't full of shit?
        He said For Christ's sake, I've known her for ages, she's a hooker same as you, she had no reason to lie to me, she was just telling me an interesting story.
        Listening to him tell her all this, she was thinking amateurs shouldn't fuck around with dope deals.
        She told him she knew a hooker in L.A., a working girl like herself, who got involved bringing dope in on an airplane. They were paying her fifty thousand bucks to bring the dope in from Antigua where it had come from London by way of Marseilles. All she had to do was carry in this false bottom bag with the dope in it. So they brought out the police dogs that day, and she was now doing twenty in San Quentin, and the guys who hired her were still having a nice time on their yacht on the French Riviera. Amateurs shouldn't fuck around with dope deals, she told him.
        Also, you shouldn't try to cross guys dealing