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

out.”
    “Does that mean you don’t like me?”
    She tried to look cool and detached—an ice princess from the pages of Vogue —but I wasn’t fooled. She had the hollow cheeks and wide mouth of the inveterate cocksucker, and she had been speculatively eying the bulge of my crotch throughout our snappy repartee. I walked around the end of her desk and stood close to her, my crotch at her eye level. It was with difficulty that she raised her eyes to my face, and with even m ore difficulty that she tried to maintain her composure. “Who do you think you—”
    “I’m here to see Maycroft.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Maycroft is busy and cannot be disturbed. Perhaps you would care to—”
    “Maycroft is expecting me.”
    “What’s your name? I’ll call—”
    “Don’t bother,” I said, reaching across and stopping her before she could buzz his office. “I’ll announce myself.”
    I walked to the door. She looked after me with a mixture of anger and confusion.
    “You want to have lunch?” I said.
    She sniffed haughtily.
    I shrugged. “Too bad. I would have given you a nice lunch.”
    I went through the door to the office proper, where it seemed that some work was being done. At least there was the click and hum that is usually associated with a working office, and people were walking back and forth not completely aimlessly. The suckers that had their money there would no doubt be encouraged by this display of energy and purpose on their behalf.
    I went down the hall to Ellis Maycroft’s office and went in without knocking. He was leaning back in his chair, his Gucci loafers up on the desk. All his attention was concentrated on the smoke rings he was blowing to the ceiling.
    “Sorry to disturb you, Maycroft, in the middle of your busy day.”
    He glanced at me without much pleasure. “Oh, Hunter.” He also wrinkled his nose before he returned his gaze to the smoke rings. This could give me some kind of complex. Three showers this morning, and people were still acting as if I smelled bad.
    His office was sparsely but expensively furnished. The big windows provided a panoramic view of L.A. that was slightly spoiled by the layer of yellow-green slime that hung over the city. Maycroft’s desk was completely bare except for a telephone and a piece of pre-Columbian sculpture that he no doubt paid a genuine price for, but that I was sure was a fake.
    The phone rang. Maycroft reluctantly lifted his feet from the desk, picked up the receiver, and listened for a moment.
    “Yes, he’s here.... No, that’s all right.... That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Carla.”
    He hung up and looked glumly at me. “That was the receptionist. You didn’t make much of an impression.”
    “I must be losing my boyish charm.”
    “She wanted to call security and have you removed.”
    “The devotion of your staff is really something. Is she any good in bed? I bet she really loves to gobble you up, huh?” He blushed—bull’s-eye !—and then looked pained. “Hunter, is it really necessary for you to be so crude... And for the record, Miss Cavelli is an employee—nothing more.”
    “Fine. It’s your record. I wouldn’t want to scratch it.... Look, Maycroft, I already went through a dance with the delightful Miss Carla, and I don’t want to do the same with you. I don’t like being here any more than you like having me, so just give me the info I wanted, and I’ll be on my way, farting and spitting and wrapped in my cloak of crudity.”
    He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked every inch the successful businessman. “Look, Hunter, I’m a senior partner in a large brokerage firm, and I don’t appreciate your ordering me about when you need something.” “Did I do that? I called you as a friend for some assistance. I thought you’d like to help.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”
    Why do these assholes always make it so difficult? I