Free The Big Enchilada by L. A. Morse Page A

shade of brown acrylic paint that had been applied with a roller. There was a small card that identified the paintings as a work called “Progression in Brown” by a currently popular artist. Through some work I had done for a dealer, I knew that the set had cost about fifty grand. At least the paint was put on nice and evenly.
    The whole appearance of the office was designed to give the impression of solidity, sobriety, and success, and anyone encouraged by the little letters outside would be completely won over by the interior decor, and would fight to leave their money here by the bucketful. I knew better, though, and I would sooner keep my money in a sock under my bed than let these frauds get their hands on it. But there’s no accounting for taste, as they say, and there are lots of people who are happy to go down the tubes while telling their friends about the swell Barcelona chairs in the reception room.
    I waded through the ankle-deep, cream-colored shag carpet to the desk where the receptionist sat. She looked like she had been chosen by the decorator to harmonize with the interior. She wore an expensive beige two-piece silk outfit that too precisely coordinated with her light brown hair and brown eyes. Her skin was lightly but perfectly tanned. She had the cool, severe, thin appearance favored by high-fashion models which appeals to women, but rarely to men. She was obviously intended to contribute to the total effect of quiet elegance and superior class. The impression was spoiled slightly by the fact that she was energetically chewing gum. She was applying nail polish with the intentness and concentration of a diamond cutter working on a million-dollar gem.
    “Just a minute,” she said without looking up, as she finished off one long and perfect nail.
    She carefully replaced the top of the bottle and turned to face me. Her expression of polite interest quickly faded when she saw me. Evidently she determined I was not a client, and therefore unworthy of any expenditure of charm. Just to make sure I knew my place, she very slightly wrinkled her nose, as if smelling some mildly unpleasant aroma. I sniffed loudly several times.
    “Hope, it’s not me,” I said.
    This caused her to sneer. She tilted back her head and looked at me from tinder drooping eyelids, as though my appearance was too shocking to be confronted fully.
    “What do you want?” she said, barely moving her lips.
    Before I could answer, the telephone rang. She announced the establishment and listened.
    “I’ll see if he’s free,” she said. She depressed the hold button and stared at the ceiling for about thirty seconds. She reconnected the line. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Spode. He’s in an important conference and cannot be disturbed.” An angry rattle came over the receiver. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Spode. I’ll tell him you called.” Another angry rattle. The girl hung up the phone and looked at it as if it, too, smelled bad.
    “What’s Spode doing—laying a secretary on his leather couch? Or is it a wealthy widow client?”
    “Really!” She started to sputter with the shocked indignation people display when you take a stab and come close to the truth.
    “And who are you having it off with?” I said. “Maycroft or Burbary?”
    “Now, look you—”
    “I guess it’s got to be Maycroft. Burbary has a decided preference for young boys.”
    Just then the door to the inner office opened and a blond, fair-skinned, slightly pudgy young man came out carrying a stack of envelopes. He hurried across the room, walking as though he had a dime between his cheeks and he didn’t want it to drop, and went out into the corridor.
    “Now that must be Burbary’s playmate,” I said.
    A harsh laugh exploded from her, acknowledging the accuracy of my remark, but she quickly recovered herself and glared at me with considerable dislike.
    “If you do not immediately state your business, I will call the security guards and have you thrown