Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 (7 page)

We shook with our free hands. “My name’s Murphy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabby.”

Gabby stubbed out his smoke and returned to ladling. “Murphy, eh? Good, solid name.

Suits ya. So, what can I do for ya, Murphy? Pack of Luckies?”

“Sure.”

Gabby turned and stood on his tippy toes to reach a pack of smokes. He rang it up, and I handed him a fin. He forked over my change and smiled. “Anything else I can getcha?”

“Actually, there is. Could you look at something for me?” I pulled the envelope from my coat pocket and passed it over the counter. Gabby picked it up and took out one of the cigarette butts. He looked it over carefully, then put it back into the envelope.

“Gitanes Specials. French cigarettes. Not bad…a little on the harsh side.”

I replaced the envelope in my pocket. “Do you sell a lot of these? I’m trying to find someone, and all I know about them is they smoke Gitanes Specials.”

Gabby didn’t reply for a moment and busied himself with expertly rolling another cigarette. After he’d run his tongue across the Zig-Zag paper and sealed it, he looked back up at me. “You a gumshoe?”

I nodded.

“That’s kinda what I figured. When you walked in, I thought to myself, this guy looks like he stepped right out of that Bob Mitchum movie…what’s it called… Farewell, My Lovely. Not like a costume or anything, just got the feel, if ya know what I mean.”

I was pleased and didn’t mind saying so. “I know what you mean. It’s an image thing.

Good for business. And I also happen to prefer the style. I guess I’m just old fashioned.”

Gabby lit his smoke. “Nothin’ wrong with that. No, sir. Like I say, just because it’s new don’t mean it’s better. People these days just don’t know the meanin’ of style. Now you take yer Bill Powells, yer Don Ameches - those guys knew how to dress. Yessir. Nothin’

wrong with a sharp fedora and a shiny pair of wing tips.”

He took another short drag. “But I’m getting’ off the beaten path. So, yer a PI, and yer looking’ for whoever smoked those Gitanes. Well, I can tell ya a couple of things. First, I don’t got ‘em here in my shop, and that means they ain’t real easy to find…unless you live in France, that is. I don’t stock ‘em because they don’t sell like yer Marlboros or even yer Dunhills. If I was you, I’d be looking for someone French, or someone who mighta been to France in recent memory. Sorry I can’t help ya more than that.”

I left the shop a little disappointed but not surprised. The woman I was looking for (or maybe the man who’d posed as the butler) might have been French or visited France, and that meant my list of suspects had narrowed down from hundreds of millions to tens of millions. Maybe Malden and his boys would find something at the mansion, but even in the unlikely case they did, that wouldn’t happen for awhile. I had only one other lead to pursue. Back in the speeder, I set course for Lowell Percival Enterprises.

The Lowell Percival Enterprises building protruded from the chest of downtown New San Francisco like a massive piece of shrapnel. The structure was composed primarily of steel and tinted glass and avoided using right angles wherever possible. Critics hailed it as the premier example of the new neo-anarchic form of architecture. I’d always thought it looked like what you’d expect to get if you gave a couple of ten-year-old kids fifty million dollars to build a clubhouse.

I could’ve called instead of making the trip to LPE, but people like Percival are inevitably surrounded by concentric rings of red tape-spewing personnel. I figured I had a better chance to get an audience by going in person. I’d never been inside the LPE

building, but I’d met the man it was named after. It had been years ago, in the Martian colonies. I was working on a big case, and a number of unusual circumstances resulted in me doing a modestly unethical errand for Percival. Now, another technically illegal operation was prompting me to renew our acquaintance. The fact that his name had been on the list in Eddie Ching’s apartment might have been meaningless and unrelated to the countess and the statuette, but I felt it was worth looking into.

I parked my speeder and walked to the irregularly shaped revolving doors. When I came out the other side, I stepped into a militarized zone. The security check would’ve made a proctologist proud. Feeling violated and slightly tender, I made my way to the large directory in the center of the vast foyer.

After consulting the directory, I crossed to a set of four elevators and waited patiently with six or seven executive types. My worn overcoat and unorthodox tie made me stand out like a rodeo clown at midnight mass, and several corporate sharks looked me over distastefully. One of the elevators opened up, and we climbed aboard. When I reached out and pressed the button for the fifty-first floor, I noticed several pairs of eyes widen.

After two stops, I was alone in the lift and continued my ascent in peace. The doors slid open, and I stepped out into a lavishly furnished hallway. I turned right and walked several hundred yards to a receptionist’s station. A beautiful woman in her mid-twenties sat behind the desk and looked up as I approached. Her voice was low and silky. “Can I help you?”

I removed my fedora. “Yes, ma’am. Is Mr. Percival in?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Percival won’t be in the office for several days. And he usually prefers that visitors make appointments.”

“OK. Could I make an appointment?”

“What is this concerning?”

I smiled apologetically. “A personal matter.”

The young woman returned the smile and looked at me as if she were trying to place my face. “Why don’t you leave your business card, and I’ll pass it along to Mr. Percival when he gets back.”

I made the pretense of checking my pockets, knowing full well that I’d run out of business cards. “I don’t think I brought one with me. Could you just take down my name and number? The name’s Murphy.”

The gorgeous woman smiled up at me, a clear look of recognition registering on her face. “Tex?”

I was caught off-guard.

“Tex Murphy?”

“Uh…yes. Have we met?”

The young woman extended her hand. It was soft and cool, just the way I liked it. We shook hands, and she didn’t let go. “Alaynah. Alaynah Moore. I knew you looked familiar.”

I tried to place the name…desperately. I wished with all my heart that I could remember where we’d met. Studying her face, I decided she did look vaguely familiar, but that was about it. “I’m very, very sorry, but I’m not sure where I know you from. It’s my darn short-term memory. Shot to hell.”

Alaynah laughed and released my hand. “It has been awhile. You used to go out with my sister Deborah.”

Oh my God. Debbie Moore. Daughter of Satan. No wonder I hadn’t remembered. It’d taken months of therapy to suppress the memory.

“So you’re little Ally Moore? I find that hard to believe. In fact, I don’t believe it. I think you’re lying.”

Alaynah laughed again. Her smile was dazzling.

“I see you got your braces off.”

“About eight years ago. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all grown up now.”

Oh, I noticed, all right. She was wearing a black blazer over a cgarcoal knit shirt that fit like a coat of paint. Her complexion was flawless, and her features had come together nicely. Long, wavy brown hair lay silkily over her shoulders. Alaynah didn’t help things when she leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“You know, I used to have quite a crush on you.”

I felt a strong urge that made me feel ever so slightly dirty. I tried to contain myself by changing the subject. “Speaking of crushed, how’s Debbie?”

“She got married a few years ago and moved to Seattle.”

Alaynah didn’t seem to want the subject changed. “How about you, Tex? You married?”

I shook my head enthusiastically. “Not anymore, thank God. And never again. I’ve been burned a few too many times, which brings us back to your sister. She was a real flamethrower.”

Alaynah fixed her eyes on me like no receptionist had ever done before. “I’m not Debbie.”

No she wasn’t. Unfortunately, I had a dual image blurring my vision. I kept seeing a gangly teenager with braces and a knack for showing up at inappropriate times. Of course, that was a long time ago. And maybe I was just imagining that she was coming on to me. “Are you coming on to me, Alaynah?”

She gave me one of those looks that would peel paint. “I think you’ve been single too long. Why don’t you buy me a drink, and I’ll see what I can do about knocking some of the rust off.”

If she only knew how rusty I was. I hadn’t had an offer like that in a month of Sundays.

It just didn’t feel.. proper. Of course, there were certainly ways to get around that.

Alcohol sprang to mind. If I’d had the cash, I would’ve jumped on her invitation like a bum on a box of chocolate. As it was, the only thing I could afford to buy was time, after which I’d go back to my office and see if I’d overlooked anything worth hocking.

“Tell you what. I’m tied up at the moment, but I promise I’ll get back to you soon.”

Alaynah trumped me. “I’m buying.”

I suspected that Alaynah’s persistence came from some long-nurtured, post-pubescent fantasy, or possibly sibling envy. Motivations not withstanding, the opportunity was too ripe to pass up. Not only was a stunning woman asking me out, but she was volunteering to foot the bill. And she was just the person to help me get in to see Percival.

“All right. I’ll let you buy me a drink, as long as you promise you won’t get me all liquored up and expect me to put out.”

Alaynah raised an eyebrow. “I promise.”

@ @ @

Alaynah got someone to cover the remainder of the afternoon for her. The special treatment was unexpected, but a welcome disruption of the routine. Twenty minutes later, we walked into Lindsay’s, a piano bar on the top floor of the downtown Hilton, which my escort said was her favorite. It was a swanky joint, where people like me would have to choose between an evening of cocktails and paying rent. The first thing that caught my attention was the sight of Nat King Cole at the piano. It was a holographic projection, but convincing enough to give me chills.

As it turned out, not only was this Alaynah’s favorite watering hole, but she also had a favorite table, waiter, and beverage. It took out a lot of the usual guesswork, and since it was her party, I was just happy to tag along. Our table sat close to a window offering a majestic view over the heart of the metropolis, which probably figured heavily into the price of the drinks.

Fat drops of rain ran down the window. In the distance, a brief flash of ruddy sunshine broke through the drizzling sky, like a flare from a sinking ship, and its last gasps played across Alaynah’s face like firelight. To avoid staring, I picked up a menu. The first item I noticed was foie gras. Oh, great. Vegetarian food. I decided to stick with liquor.

Alaynah smiled at me over the top of her menu as the waiter appeared and asked what we wanted. My escort ordered a white wine spritzer and something French. I wanted to make a good impression and ordered a scotch. When the waiter left, Alaynah fixed her gaze on me.

“A few wrinkles around the eyes…not quite so thin…for the most part, you haven’t changed much at all. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

I glanced down at my rumpled overcoat and askew tie. I didn’t look good at all. Of course, love is blind, and so, apparently, is pure, wanton lust. I felt like a sex object, and I liked it. “Well, I’ve tried to take care of myself. I eat right, exercise, and take Geritol every day.”

Alaynah giggled. I suspected that she would be fun to tickle. She leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin resting on her hands. “So…tell me what you’ve been up to all these years.”

I shrugged. “Not much. Work. I got married and divorced. No kids. That’s about it.

Nothing exciting.”

Alaynah looked at me dubiously. “I find that hard to believe. What kind of work?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

My date flashed me another smoldering look. “What a coincidence. I’ve been looking for a good private investigator.”

“No kidding.”

Alaynah nodded playfully. “If you’re any good, I have a little something I’d like you to take a look at.”

She wasn’t very subtle, but she certainly had grown up. A part of me was quickly forgetting the image of her as a gangly teenager. Unfortunately, that particular part of me was the one that usually got me into trouble.

Like she was reading my mind. Alaynah sat back in her chair, a perfect picture of posture. She’d either shelled out for surgery or had blessed genes. “So what does a PI do for fun?”

I felt like a little kid trying to stay awake - my eyes kept drifting down and snapping back up to her face. She might not have minded, but I was still trying to handle this situation with a bit of decorum. And don’t forget, I told myself, you hate women. With some effort, I focused on her eyes.

“Oh, the usual…long walks in the rain…playing with puppies…badminton.”

Our waiter arrived and deposited our drinks with a flourish. We raised our glasses, and Alaynah volunteered a toast. “To old acquaintances and new experiences.” I nodded and we drank. Things were looking much too promising.

“Tell me, what’s it like to work for the richest man in the world?”

Alaynah shrugged. “It pays well. I’m actually planning on going back to school, maybe get a doctorate.”

“Really. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I haven’t decided. I think it might be fun to teach. Probably history. It’s always interested me.” Alaynah took another sip. “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I’m pretty much locked into the PI gig. This fedora was an occupational investment.”

“OK, if you weren’t a PI, what would you want to be?”

I considered. “A philanthropist.”

Alaynah’s face lit up and, for a moment, I was again reminded of little Ally Moore. I glanced down briefly, and the image evaporated. Alaynah flipped her hair back and raised her glass again. “Here’s to us both being happy and getting rich.”

It was a worthy toast, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. I took a long drink of scotch.