Foof, thought Scott Weiss. Bishop. You crazy fuck. You’re killing me here.
He read the e-mail over, unconsciously moving his hand to his stomach. This op of his was going to give him an ulcer one of these days.
Weiss. I’m in. The gìrl is with them. Attached at the crotch to this Tweedy character, the one who calls himself Cobra. I’ll have to poke a wedge in between them and fast, it looks like—they’re a bad bunch and they talk like they’re working on some kind of big job. I’ll check with the client, see how he wants to deal. Too beat up and boozed up to think it out right now. The Angel Withers connect was solid, btw, thanks. Talk to you. JB
Weiss swiveled back and forth a little in his chair. He went on massaging his paunch with his hand. Did Bishop do this shit to him on purpose? he wondered. Use those phrases? Joined at the crotch? Poke a wedge in between them? Poke a wedge! Oh hell, of course he did it on purpose. It amused him to taunt Weiss with his sexual exploits, with all his exploits. Getting boozed up and beat up. Poking in his wedge.
For fuck’s sake, Bishop.
Bishop knew—he had to know—that this was a big client for Weiss, a big case for Weiss Investigations. He knew Weiss would disapprove of him pulling his usual stunts and bullshit. The women, the fights, the cool disregard for any rule anywhere. And he knew Weiss would feel like an old woman because he did disapprove.
And maybe he knew the worst of it, too: that under all the disapproval, Weiss envied him. Sure. Weiss was Weiss; he couldn’t kid himself. He envied Bishop for the way women lay down for him and the way Bishop didn’t care, especially the way he didn’t goddamn care…
His intercom buzzed. Weiss clicked the e-mail shut, shaking his head. He swiveled to the phone, pressed the button. He heard the receptionist, Amy.
“Professor Brinks is here.”
“All right,” said Weiss. He gave a heavy sigh. “Send him in.”