Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (4 page)

“Okay. I know the place.”

“Two o’clock sharp. He’ll be in the corner booth. He’ll be wearing a dark blue suit. He will answer your questions and assess if you are suitable.”

“Okay, sir.”

Without speaking another word, he hung up.

When you’ve been around the block as many times as I have, you’re always skeptical. Guys like me didn’t win lotto. Guys like me didn’t get easy breaks. Guys like me had to work for every little thing they had in life. When something sounds too good to be true, there’s a reason for it: that something is bullshit.

Still, the desperation in the man’s voice…my instincts rarely failed me. And something told me this was for real. I was intrigued, and as crazy as it seemed, I was hopeful.

* *

The cab let me off a few blocks up from the diner. I was ten minutes early, and I needed the time to clear my head before meeting this
Greenwal
fella. It had been a long time since I’d had a case. A real case, anyway. A case that required detective work and waking up before noon on a weekday.

When I walked inside the diner, it was easy to spot
Greenwal
. Just as promised, he was in the corner booth, all alone, wearing a blue suit—a real conservative one. He looked like a total drip: big bald spot, with the sides overgrown and combed to the middle in a swoop; wide-rimmed glasses about two decades out of fashion and a suit where the arms looked a size too small.

I sat down across from him in the diner booth.

“Mr. Mondale?”

“Yep. You must be
Greenwal
.”

He looked both ways while yanking at his shirtsleeve. “Not too loud please. Discretion is a must.”

I nodded. I was used to being discreet. Most clients insisted on it.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No. Can’t say I do.”

“Good. Good. I work for a very important and very wealthy man. You may not recognize me, but you’d surely recognize him.”

“Okay.”

“My employer has sent me out here to scout you out, so to speak. He has chosen you for a reason. He can afford better…”
Greenwal’s
pale face turned red. He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. If I wasn’t so desperate for cash, perhaps I’d have been insulted. But instead of making a fuss, I held up my hands to indicate there was no harm done. Then I gestured with a wave of my hand for
Greenwal
to continue. He did: “Excuse me, what I mean to say is, my employer could find a more highly regarded detective. But he doesn’t want that.”

He abruptly stopped talking as the waitress walked over. Through loud, cow-chews of gum, a young girl with dirty blond hair, perhaps a student working for some extra cash, asked, “What can I get you?”

“Cup of coffee, please.” I said.

“Nothing for me.”

She walked away, and he waited for her to be well down the aisle before speaking again. The place was all but empty. The lunch rush had cleared out and the early bird dinner crowd wasn’t coming for a while. Aside from two construction workers getting takeout at the front, we had the place to ourselves.

“We know about you, Mr. Mondale.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows raised, then I said with a chuckle, “I thought I was the detective here?”

“We know you didn’t make it as a cop. We know you have a small gambling problem and a big drinking problem.”

“Actually, it’s vice versa, Mr.
Greenwal
. But the good news is I don’t smoke. My mother smokes. Now that is a filthy habit.”

He didn’t crack a smile, instead continuing on. “We also know you are fearless, and very good at what you do.”

Finally, a little flattery.

The waitress walked back and dropped the coffee. I was about to say thank you when
Greenwal
brushed her off. She took the hint and quickly scurried off.

“My employer has a daughter. She’s in some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You’ll have all that answered, once we are convinced that you are the right guy for the job.”

“What more can I do? Jump on the table and tap dance?” I didn’t mean to get snippy with the guy, but the scrawny twerp was starting to piss me off with the cat-and-mouse games.

“I need to be certain that you will keep quiet, and do just as you are instructed. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“If you can do that, you will be very well paid.”

“How well paid?”

“My employer always overpays. That way he ensures the best service.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.”

“Very well. I will report back to him. Be available this evening for our call.”

What could I say? As much as his smug orders were bugging me, I needed the job. So I told him, “Here’s my card. My cell, my home and my business lines. Call me any time. Day or night.”

“Will do, Mr. Mondale.” Then he pulled a black leather wallet from his back pocket and took out two bills. He put a five dollar bill on the table, handed me a twenty and stood up. “For your coffee and your cab fare.”

“Thanks.”

* *

When I got back to the office, Sandy was standing in front of an open file cabinet.

“There’s nothing of value in there, Sandy.”

“Very funny.”

“Who’s kidding?”

“I’m filing.”

“You’re filing?” She hadn’t voluntarily filed anything in as long as I could remember. She must have been really bored.

“Yes. With this fancy new client of yours, I don’t want you to forget how valuable I can be.”

“Whatever.” As I walked past her, I saw a bulge in the back pocket of her dark gray slacks. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“In your pocket.”

“Oh, nothing.”

I reached for it, and pulled a box of brand new pens out of her pants.

“Hey, watch where you’re grabbing, buster!”

I held the pens up and shook my head. “Would you please stop stealing my pens.”

She grabbed the box from my hand. “I wasn’t stealing. I was putting them away.”

“Go home, Sandy. You’ve done your work for the day.”

“Goodnight.”

Never had to tell her twice: in a flash, the cabinet was closed, her things gathered up, and she was out the door.

I went to my office, and sat down with the newspaper. I was about to start the crossword but fumbled through my desk and couldn’t find a working pen. Instead, I read the sports pages and waited for the call.

It wasn’t long before the phone rang, and I grabbed for it, with a tinge of sweat in my palms. But then I paused. Never pick up a phone on the first ring. A decent private detective is busy.

“Mondale Investigative Services. Hank speaking.”

“
Hennn-reeee
. It’s your
mutha
.”

“Hi, Ma.” I tried not to sound disappointed but the loud gasping sigh was a giveaway.

“Is that any way to greet your
mutha
, Henry?”

“Sorry, Ma. I was expecting an important call.”

“My calls aren’t important, Henry?”

“Ma, stop it.”

“If that’s the way you feel about your mother, perhaps I should stop calling.”

“Ma, please. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I am expecting a call from a client.”

“I see. Big shot, my son Henry. Gets important calls. More important than his mother.”

“Mom, I have to go. I can’t tie up the line.”

“I see. Don’t you have that call waiting
thingee
that all you hot shots have?”

“Mom, I’ll call you later.
Gotta
go.”

“Bye, Henry.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* *

The phone rang. I let it ring twice, and just as the third ring began, I picked it up.

"Mondale Investigative Services. Hank speaking.”

“Mr. Mondale.” It was the voice again, the voice of dancing dollars speaking in hushed tones.

“Yes, sir.”

“
Greenwal
seems to think you are the right person for the job.”

“Great.”

“I still have my doubts.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What can I do to make you more at ease with hiring me?” I was never a great salesman, but I was searching for the right approach to win Mr.
Moneybucks
over.

“It’s okay. I’ve decided to go ahead and hire you.”

“Excellent.” I could smell the delightful aroma of cash oozing through the receiver.

“I am sending a car to your office. It will be there within the half hour. Be ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up the phone and pumped my fist like Kobe Bryant after slamming home a game-winning dunk. He hadn’t talked money, and I was trying to remain my usual, cynical self. But this was too good to be true. This guy was rich. He went through all this trouble for a reason.

I was dying to know what that reason was.

* *

The car pulled up in front of my office. I could see the headlights through the storefront window. I opened my desk drawer and took out my .38 revolver and loaded it. I didn’t figure I’d need it, at least not tonight. But I was officially working, so it was best to be prepared. The soft-spoken guy on the phone was expecting to hire a prepared detective. It was always best to act the part.

As I stepped outside the front door to my office, the driver climbed out and opened the car door for me. The car looked like the guy on the phone talked, wealthy, but understated. At least, as understated as a black, stretch Lincoln limousine could look.

The driver didn’t say much; he was all business. He closed the door behind me, then got in front and started driving. I relaxed. My sides were a little sore from the
gutshots
Flip and Marco had drilled into me, and the soft leather seat was just what I needed. I almost nodded off, but truthfully, I was too excited—schoolboy excited. That hadn’t happened in many years.

 I eyeballed the bar that stood in the middle of the carpeted backseat—its swinging doors made of maple or mahogany or something—definitely real wood. There was a fresh, unopened bottle of Jim Beam that was calling out to me, chirping like a songbird:
Drink me
. I closed the bar, leaving the bottle alone.

Outside the window, I saw the signs for The Major
Deegan
Expressway North.

“We headed upstate?” I asked the driver.

“Yes, sir.”

“How far upstate?”

“Oh, not too far.” He didn’t turn around, or even look at me in the rearview mirror. He just kept his focus on the road. “Shouldn’t be too long, sir. Just relax and enjoy. I’ll get you there quickly and safely.”

“Okay,” I said. The guy wasn’t talking. No point pressing him. It didn’t really matter much to me anyway. I had all night.

About an hour north of the city, we exited the expressway. The Lincoln purred and didn’t even rattle slightly as we drove along twisty, tree-lined side roads. Another half hour passed and finally the car slowed.

A large, black gate opened as the car turned right into a regal driveway lined with fine stone masonry. High, green hedges seemed to envelop us as we turned in.

The driver slowed and nodded to a man in a suit who sat in a security booth at the foot of the property. The black gate closed behind us, slowly but firmly. The guy in the suit saluted back. The car drove upwards, the driveway slightly inclined, then wrapped around a wide semicircle. Two houses were in view, and just behind them a much bigger house stood at the high arc of the driveway.

We reached the top of the semicircle driveway and the entrance to the main house. The driver stopped the car, and stepped out. I let him open the door for me—not usually my style but the guy seemed so formal I felt compelled to acquiesce.

He helped me out of the car and led me to the door. A stiff old man in a butler-style monkey-suit opened the door. The driver returned to the car.

“Good evening, sir,” the old guy said. His accent wasn’t British, but still, he spoke the King’s English quite well. We didn’t hear that accent much in the City. “Was your trip satisfactory?”

“Just lovely, sir. Just lovely.”

He probably sensed a little sarcasm in my voice but didn’t let on. “Wonderful. Can I get your coat?”

“Why, certainly.” I handed him my gloves, then my overcoat and scarf, and he quickly scurried to the closet and disappeared inside it.

“Mr. Mondale, this way please.” The voice was
Greenwal’s
. I looked up a large staircase and saw him at the top.