Free Skin Trade by Reggie Nadelson

to slip. The pavement was slick as glass. It was Friday. I’d arrived in Paris early Wednesday morning. I was tired. I tried to focus on the conversation.
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    â€œWe’ve got to close the Levesque case. I had a talk to New York. It’s dragging on. It’s open and shut, this one, isn’t it, Artie? We know how he died, we’ve got his bank statements, all we need is to know who forged his bloody signature. We paid for your trip to Europe. It was a favor to the New York office, you know. We haven’t got anything more than we did when you arrived in London.”
    I kept my mouth shut.
    â€œI know it’s not the best time for you, but it’s a business. Our client hired us to check through all the records and find the forger. It’s a simple paper trail, I’d have thought.”
    I listened to her, heard the whiney, arrogant British voice and I lost it. “Listen, Carol, just tell me what the hell you’re saying.”
    â€œI’m saying if I don’t get something from you in a week, which is more than reasonable, you’re off this job. Not just here, either. I talked to New York. You can call them yourself if you like.” In the background I could hear her tapping on her computer, hitting the keys hard. Tap tap tap. “I’m sorry,” she added.
    I pictured her mean small face again, the pointed chin, the frizzy hair, the supercilious look. But I needed the work to keep me in Paris. I needed the money to take care of Lily and Beth. I needed the company credit card to pay the hotel. For once in my life, I bit my tongue literally, bit it until it stung, tossed my half-smoked cigarette into the gutter.
    â€œI’m on it today,” I bluffed. “Look, I have a lead. I wasn’t going to tell you until I ran it down, but I have a lead.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI have a lead.”
    â€œCome off it, Artie. You haven’t a thing on Levesque, and I’m putting someone else on it as soon as someone comes free.”
    â€œCarol?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWho hired Keyes? Who wanted the Levesque thing looked at?” I’d asked in New York, but no one was talking.
    â€œMaybe the bank. Maybe someone private. There was a request for anonymity. We never ask. Anyway, it came through the New York office.”
    â€œSo it could be some criminal who hired you, or some Nazi thug or any other kind of creep.”
    â€œSure. Or some corporation. Or some crazy rich guy. We’re not the police. We’re in business.”
    â€œSure you are,” I said, but I was already walking to the Metro.
    â€œI’m taking you off the bloody case, all right? I called to cut you some slack. You’re not in any condition. I’ll make it nice when I report to New York, but you know what, Artie?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe’ve got to close this, and you’re just not a closer.” The contempt flowed through the phone.
    â€œYou’ll have the goods later today,” I said, switched off my phone and got the subway.
    I got lost. I got the Metro to the suburb where the bank was. I got off at the wrong stop, then found myself heading across a small park where bare branches snapped in the wind and leaves crackled underfoot. I was in a hurry. Carol Browne was cutting me loose. Lily needed help; I had to get her home.
    In Puteaux there was a hustle of activity: twenty-somethings in great outfits hurrying to modern buildings after lunch; fancy restaurants spilling confident, busy,French people onto the sidewalk. They looked like advertising guys and women who worked at magazines, people with things on their mind and money in their pockets. The weekend was coming up. They had plans. Thin but sleek, they yelled into phones, laughed together, crossed the street against the light. A waiter outside a café stared at the bleak sky, sneaking a smoke. Lunch was over.
    The bank I was looking for was