Thirteen

Joe Service was in town. So far, nobody was aware of it. There were people waiting for him at the airport since noon. It was now 11 P.M. and Joe was downtown. That was the way he worked. Very devious.

The thing was, Joe liked his privacy. But in his business, privacy was a difficult thing to maintain. Too many people were interested in him. They wanted to know where he was all the time. His clients wanted to know more about him; the police were always interested. But so far, nobody knew much except that he got results.

“I don't guarantee,” Joe would say, and then he would deliver.

To look at Joe Service you would think, Here is a city boy, born and bred. He was a short man with heavy black hair and thick eyebrows. He was not handsome, but he wasn't plug ugly, either. He smiled a lot, and that helped. Also, he looked intelligent, and that helped, since a lot of people will forgive homeliness for wit. He looked like he came out of the darkest heart of Brooklyn.

Except that he had such a deep tan. The fact was, Joe did come from Brooklyn, but for a long time he had lived in the mountainous West. Lately, he had a little cabin that was closer to Helper, Utah, than any other place. It was little more than a base camp. All he did there was practice with a Colt .38 and hike around the mountains. He drove his pickup truck long distances, to Green River to fish, or up to Idaho to hunt. Occasionally his city breeding would assert itself, and then he would drive into Helper to catch the Denver & Rio Grande to Denver or Salt Lake City. If the cabin fever got real bad, he would take the Amtrak to Reno, or even San Francisco. Joe loved trains.

No matter where he went, once a week he called an answering service in one of three cities—San Francisco, Miami or New York. That was how he heard about a job in Detroit. He was ready to work. He called some contacts in New York and Chicago, to get further information about the nature of this Detroit job. And then he was enthusiastic. So he called Detroit and said he would come.

His original plan was to take the train to Salt Lake and fly directly to Detroit, via Chicago. But when he got to Helper, he changed his mind and caught the train east. He fooled around in Denver for a day and took the Amtrak to Chicago.

In Chicago, he called his clients in Detroit and said he would arrive at Metropolitan Airport around noon. He even went out to O'Hare. But there he got hooked into an old familiar exercise of his and wasted a lot of time. He had a drink at one of the stand-up bars and picked out a face that looked like the straightest, most uninteresting guy there. Then he began to follow the man. All over the airport. To the magazine counter, the bathroom, to another stand-up bar. The man never noticed him, although Joe was not exactly an inconspicuous person. At last Joe followed him into the big restaurant and got seated next to him. In ten minutes he had picked out the man's life story. It was a very boring story and had a lot to do with chemical fertilizers and Grandview, Missouri.

So Joe took the Amtrak to Detroit. Now it was eleven at night, instead of noon, and he was downtown instead of at the airport. His deviousness went so far as to allow him to take a cab fifteen miles out to Metro. Once there, it was easy to pretend that he had just gotten off a flight.

He checked his bag in a coin box and strolled around the terminal. By midnight he had figured out who his contact was. A heavy man in a blue overcoat. Joe walked up to him and said, “I'm Joe Service.”

“You're late,” the man said. He was surprised that Joe was so short.

“Been here for hours,” Joe said. “Came in on another flight, from Milwaukee.”

The man shrugged. It was no big deal. He was paid to wait. They went out to a white Continental, which was warm because a driver had been sitting in it since noon. It smelled like a cigar.

On the way to Detroit, the fat man provided Joe with all the information he possessed about Arthur Clippert. He also provided five thousand dollars in cash. A retainer, he said. He also provided a Colt .38 revolver and a box of ammunition. Joe put the money and the weapon in his topcoat pockets.

“We don't expect you to use that,” the man said, “and we want it back.”

Service nodded. “I'd have brought my own, but these metal detectors . . .”

“That's all right. We'll help you all we can, but basically, we hear you like to work alone. That's fine with us. You just do your number. When and if you find the money, though, we want to know about it right away. We want to be there when you pick it up.”

“That may not be possible,” Joe said.

“If it ain't possible, okay. But try to make it possible. We didn't bring you in at this expense, rep or no rep, just to get euchred on the payoff. We want to be there.” The fat man smiled. “See? We trust you, Joe. But we're careful.”

Joe did not smile. “You don't have to trust me. You trust the Big Guy. He knows who I am and so do I. It's how I stay alive.” Then he smiled. “I don't guarantee. I just do my best. Now, what do the cops think?”

The white Continental plunged into the concrete ditch of the freeway system. “Screw the cops,” the fat man said. “What do they know? All they're worried about is his old lady got taken off. We want to know about the money. Everybody knows the bastard is holding, but how much? And where? He could have stashed it in a hundred banks, but we figure it's not too far away, most of it anyway, cause he has to use it. He might even have it in his house.”

“Was that your guys who broke into the house and did the wife?”

“Not us,” the fat man said. “We don't know who, yet. Amateurs. All we know is there was two of them and one of them was a cabdriver, maybe. We'd like to know more about them, but don't waste time on it unless you think that's where the money is.”

Service nodded. “You people weren't into Fidelity Funding, then?”

“More amateurs,” the fat man said. “But they had a sweet deal going. They just didn't know how to keep it going. Too many assholes involved. The word got out. But that computer kid was pretty sharp. We been talking to him. We could use a guy like that. Naw, they blew it, but let's face it, they still managed to rip off the all-time bundle. And they still got it. Question is, for how long?” The fat man spoke authoritatively, like a literary critic who has seen a fascinating but obviously marred work of genius.

“We booked you a room at the Statler, Joe, and we got you a car. We even got you a chauffeur, since you probably don't know your way around town too well. The boss wanted to meet with you, but"—he looked at his watch—"it's late, and you're probably beat. Call this number in the morning.” He handed Joe a slip of paper. “We'll set up a meeting.”

“Thanks,” Joe said.

The Continental pulled off the freeway and turned onto a side street and stopped next to a dark-blue Chevy. The man behind the wheel of the Chevy waved. Joe carried his bag to the back seat of the Chevy. The Continental left.

“You're late,” the driver said. He was a young man. The car was full of cigarette smoke.

“You mind not smoking?” Joe said. “It bothers me.”

“You don't smoke?” the driver said. He weaved quickly through the snowy streets.

“No. Let's go downtown. I want to check out the local talent. You know a place?”

The driver laughed. “Sure do. We'll go to Johnny's. Ginch up the ying-yang.”

“Don't drive so fast,” Joe said. “There's no hurry. And stop at a drugstore. I need some Rolaids.”

“Rolaids. You got an ulcer, or something?”

“Just a bad stomach. I can't stand that airplane food.”

The driver pulled up at a corner drugstore and parked illegally.

“Be right out,” Joe said. He walked in the front door and moved directly toward the pharmacist's counter in the rear, then veered out a side entrance onto the side street and walked quickly away. Within a block he found a cab. He rode it to a bar on the other side of downtown and went in for a drink and to check the telephone directory. He made a call, then called another cab. He rode to a place where he could catch a suburban bus.

An hour later he was comfortably lodged in a motel in Royal Oak. He felt fine. The dodging around was good exercise. He had a safe gun, he had five thousand dollars, and he had a distinct absence of heavy breathing over his shoulder. Now he could work. He called the number the fat man had given him. After the angry noises had died down he explained that he was here to do the job. He would do it his way. Period. If they didn't like it, he would go home. Also, the five thousand dollars was a paltry retainer and he would consider it expense money. For the job, he would work on a straight commission—10 percent of whatever he found. If they didn't like it, they should check with the following number in New York City.

There was a lot more noise about that, but finally it was agreed upon.

Joe slept well. In the morning he started calling taxicab companies, asking for work. A lot of the companies needed drivers, but he was able to eliminate those that didn't. It was a start. Now he would have to go and find out why they needed drivers.

He went to breakfast down the street, at a small workingman's joint called Eat. He saw the headlines: GANGLAND SLAYING?