Tail Spin
Page 39
Angel nodded, tapped her fingers on the tabletop, tossed her head, sending all that beautiful blond hair swinging away from her head to settle again on her shoulders and down her back. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Roddy is always blowing hard, bragging, like that, telling me how important he is, how when there’s a problem, he’s the one folks call to solve it. He was all puffed up when he told me he had to go out of town for a couple of days, take care of this situation for a real important dude. He didn’t give me a name, if that’s what you’re wondering.
“I was wondering why Roddy hasn’t called me, then I realized my cell is dead and I can’t charge it since Roddy locked me out of his apartment. Is he going to die?”
“No,” Sherlock said, “but he’s not in terribly good shape. Lost the use of both of his hands for a while.”
“I was thinking he was a hit man, like that,” Angel said, looking over Savich’s right shoulder, her voice calm. “I can see him blowing it, too. I mean even in bed he was always too fast off the mark, didn’t really think things through, you know? No surprise he’d screw up a hit.”
“Did he tell you about this situation he had to handle?” Savich asked. He pulled a pack of sugarless gum from his pocket, offered her a stick.
She took it, peeled the wrapper with long white fingers, stuck it into her mouth. She chewed, then sighed. “Well, this isn’t a Big Mac, but it’s not bad. Thanks, Special Agent.”
“You’re welcome.” They chewed in companionable silence, then Savich said, “About the situation Roddy had to handle—we’d sure appreciate your telling us exactly what you know about it.”
A flicker of alarm widened her eyes.
Savich said easily, “The woman he tried to kill, the woman who shot him instead, she’s still in danger, from the people or person who hired Roddy. Did he tell you anything?”
Angel began tapping her fingers again on the scarred tabletop. Savich wasn’t blind, he saw the gleam in her innocent blue eyes. Ah, so they had a budding deal maker on their hands. “Nah,” Angel began, “he didn’t tell me a thing, and I don’t know anything—”
Savich interrupted her smoothly. “If you help us, I’ll make sure you get the reward. It’s . . . ah . . . I’m not really sure, maybe five hundred bucks, depending on the information.”
“That’s bullshit,” Angel said.
“Well, yeah,” Savich admitted, “but the thing is, it’d buy a lot of Big Macs and a new charger for your cell phone.”
“Hmm,” Angel said. “How do I know I can trust you? I mean, you’re pretty hot, but you’re still a federal cop. It’d take weeks, maybe years before I’d get the reward.”
Savich pulled out his wallet, saw her eyes were glued to it. He slowly peeled out five one-hundred-dollar bills, the entire amount he’d gotten from his ATM that morning. “To prove you can trust me, I’ll advance the reward. It’s yours if what you tell us is useful.”
She never looked away from the stack of bills.
“The first one’s on account,” Savich said, and pushed one of the bills to her, “to prove my good intent.” Angel grabbed it and stuffed it in her bra.
“There’s nothing like green next to your skin,” she said, and gave him a huge smile. “Okay, I can give you useful stuff. After three bourbons, straight up, Roddy started bitching, told me he should be paid more to handle this situation. Roddy always talked like that—you know, making words sound important. He said it was pissant dough for his talents, like that. I almost shouted at him, ‘Dude, you’re old and nasty, who’d want to pay you anything?’ But I had a nice place to stay and Roddy was easy and fast in bed, so I kept my trap shut. Roddy said it was a real rush deal. He was going in and out of this hick town like right now, and so he didn’t have time to check anything out, said he hated going in blind, but from what I could tell, that’s what he always did, just waltzed right in somewhere and hoped for the best. What a dumbass. Is that useful?”
“Not very,” Savich said, and fingered a second hundred, his eyes on her face.
Angel’s hands fluttered toward the second bill. She said, “Okay, I’ll admit I was listening when the phone rang—that’s how I knew he got the job. He knew whoever it was, and he was real respectful, assured whoever it was that he could handle anything, to trust him, lame stuff like that.”
“He didn’t say a name?”
“No, he listened, then kept telling whoever it was that he’d take care of it, no problem.”
“When he hung up, what did he say?”
“He said he had to move fast, that he had to drive to this hick town in Kentucky tomorrow, he had to leave real early Monday morning. Oh yeah, he wrote down lots of stuff. Directions, I guess. Then this photo came through his fax machine.”
Savich pushed the second hundred-dollar bill across the table. It disappeared into her bra.
“Okay, the fax—it was a woman, young, pretty, okay blond hair”—she tossed her head again—“but she had this real cool braid. So I asked him what he was going to do to her and he said, nothing much, just put out her lights, and he slogged down another shot of bourbon. While he poured, I picked up her photo—it was off a driver’s license, but like I said, I could tell she was pretty even though the picture was crap. When I get a driver’s license I’m going to sleep with the guy taking the pictures so I can get me a good one.”
Savich began to smooth out the third one-hundred-dollar bill.
“He grabbed the fax from me, started talking to himself, like, ‘I need a full clip, maybe two, that’ll do it. Cheap bastards, ’ on and on like that, you know?”
Bastards. Plural. Savich nodded. “Angel, by any chance did Roddy ever use your cell phone?”
She thought about that, and Savich could see her mental wheels spinning. “Well, yeah, maybe, a couple of times.”
“How long ago did the graduate student trade your services for a cell phone?”
“Well, I guess I should tell you I gave that grad student a smiley face when I was living with Roddy.”
“And you still have your cell?”
“Yeah, sure, but like I told you, it’s deader than the fish my uncle Bobby shot out of the water when he was aiming for my little brother.”
“I was wondering why Roddy hasn’t called me, then I realized my cell is dead and I can’t charge it since Roddy locked me out of his apartment. Is he going to die?”
“No,” Sherlock said, “but he’s not in terribly good shape. Lost the use of both of his hands for a while.”
“I was thinking he was a hit man, like that,” Angel said, looking over Savich’s right shoulder, her voice calm. “I can see him blowing it, too. I mean even in bed he was always too fast off the mark, didn’t really think things through, you know? No surprise he’d screw up a hit.”
“Did he tell you about this situation he had to handle?” Savich asked. He pulled a pack of sugarless gum from his pocket, offered her a stick.
She took it, peeled the wrapper with long white fingers, stuck it into her mouth. She chewed, then sighed. “Well, this isn’t a Big Mac, but it’s not bad. Thanks, Special Agent.”
“You’re welcome.” They chewed in companionable silence, then Savich said, “About the situation Roddy had to handle—we’d sure appreciate your telling us exactly what you know about it.”
A flicker of alarm widened her eyes.
Savich said easily, “The woman he tried to kill, the woman who shot him instead, she’s still in danger, from the people or person who hired Roddy. Did he tell you anything?”
Angel began tapping her fingers again on the scarred tabletop. Savich wasn’t blind, he saw the gleam in her innocent blue eyes. Ah, so they had a budding deal maker on their hands. “Nah,” Angel began, “he didn’t tell me a thing, and I don’t know anything—”
Savich interrupted her smoothly. “If you help us, I’ll make sure you get the reward. It’s . . . ah . . . I’m not really sure, maybe five hundred bucks, depending on the information.”
“That’s bullshit,” Angel said.
“Well, yeah,” Savich admitted, “but the thing is, it’d buy a lot of Big Macs and a new charger for your cell phone.”
“Hmm,” Angel said. “How do I know I can trust you? I mean, you’re pretty hot, but you’re still a federal cop. It’d take weeks, maybe years before I’d get the reward.”
Savich pulled out his wallet, saw her eyes were glued to it. He slowly peeled out five one-hundred-dollar bills, the entire amount he’d gotten from his ATM that morning. “To prove you can trust me, I’ll advance the reward. It’s yours if what you tell us is useful.”
She never looked away from the stack of bills.
“The first one’s on account,” Savich said, and pushed one of the bills to her, “to prove my good intent.” Angel grabbed it and stuffed it in her bra.
“There’s nothing like green next to your skin,” she said, and gave him a huge smile. “Okay, I can give you useful stuff. After three bourbons, straight up, Roddy started bitching, told me he should be paid more to handle this situation. Roddy always talked like that—you know, making words sound important. He said it was pissant dough for his talents, like that. I almost shouted at him, ‘Dude, you’re old and nasty, who’d want to pay you anything?’ But I had a nice place to stay and Roddy was easy and fast in bed, so I kept my trap shut. Roddy said it was a real rush deal. He was going in and out of this hick town like right now, and so he didn’t have time to check anything out, said he hated going in blind, but from what I could tell, that’s what he always did, just waltzed right in somewhere and hoped for the best. What a dumbass. Is that useful?”
“Not very,” Savich said, and fingered a second hundred, his eyes on her face.
Angel’s hands fluttered toward the second bill. She said, “Okay, I’ll admit I was listening when the phone rang—that’s how I knew he got the job. He knew whoever it was, and he was real respectful, assured whoever it was that he could handle anything, to trust him, lame stuff like that.”
“He didn’t say a name?”
“No, he listened, then kept telling whoever it was that he’d take care of it, no problem.”
“When he hung up, what did he say?”
“He said he had to move fast, that he had to drive to this hick town in Kentucky tomorrow, he had to leave real early Monday morning. Oh yeah, he wrote down lots of stuff. Directions, I guess. Then this photo came through his fax machine.”
Savich pushed the second hundred-dollar bill across the table. It disappeared into her bra.
“Okay, the fax—it was a woman, young, pretty, okay blond hair”—she tossed her head again—“but she had this real cool braid. So I asked him what he was going to do to her and he said, nothing much, just put out her lights, and he slogged down another shot of bourbon. While he poured, I picked up her photo—it was off a driver’s license, but like I said, I could tell she was pretty even though the picture was crap. When I get a driver’s license I’m going to sleep with the guy taking the pictures so I can get me a good one.”
Savich began to smooth out the third one-hundred-dollar bill.
“He grabbed the fax from me, started talking to himself, like, ‘I need a full clip, maybe two, that’ll do it. Cheap bastards, ’ on and on like that, you know?”
Bastards. Plural. Savich nodded. “Angel, by any chance did Roddy ever use your cell phone?”
She thought about that, and Savich could see her mental wheels spinning. “Well, yeah, maybe, a couple of times.”
“How long ago did the graduate student trade your services for a cell phone?”
“Well, I guess I should tell you I gave that grad student a smiley face when I was living with Roddy.”
“And you still have your cell?”
“Yeah, sure, but like I told you, it’s deader than the fish my uncle Bobby shot out of the water when he was aiming for my little brother.”
