"Rain, Anthony Vincent - The Dangerous Type" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rain Anthony Vincent)

The Dangerous Type
by Anthony Vincent Rain

It was 11:00pm on a Tuesday night and McGee's was hopping. I was sitting at the long mahogany bar, sipping Glenfiddich and watching the crowd in the equally long mirror. Some had come from the theatre further down on Broadway, others had just got out of work, or were meeting friends for drinks. I was there celebrating solo the closing of a very lengthy industrial espionage case. I had earned a nice five-figure fee as the PI gathering evidence for the plaintiff's lawyer, and I thought a few glasses of single malt scotch were in order.

Brian the bartender came over and poured more Glenfiddich into my glass. He was an ex-minor league ballplayer who never made it past the small stadiums and playing fields of Massachusetts and Upstate New York. He was good and probably could have turned pro, except he broke his leg running into an outfield wall made of wood and cinderblock. He spent the following two years painfully realizing his dream was over, then knocked around Manhattan before opening this place down the block from my office.

"You look tired, Miles. Did you have to kill many bad guys today?"

"None so far."

He laughed and put the green-colored bottle on the shelf behind him. "I hope you noticed I put Brubeck on the CD player when you walked in." Brian knew I was a jazz fan and Brubeck was my current fave.

"Brian, you the man."

"'Did you kill many guys today.' That sounds ominous." The comment came from a strawberry blonde sitting to my right at the bar. She was young and dressed casually in jeans and pale shirt, in contrast to the trendy Gotham women floating around McGee's.

"I'm a private investigator. It's sophomoric inside humor. And I think he said 'bad guys,' which is ok in my book."

"What kind of investigating do you do?"

"All kinds, really. Surveillance, background investigation, bodyguard work, bail enforcement. Missing persons is a large chunk, too."

There was an empty barstool between us. She picked up her drink, a cola-colored concoction, and moved over. Brian winked at me, then walked over to a man calling out "chief, chief" at the other end of the bar.

"I could use a private detective," she said. The down-turned corners of her mouth echoed her words.

"How so?"

"I'm looking for my brother. Tommy and I had a falling out two years ago. I came to New York because a friend of mine happened to see Tommy in the city last month. I'm from St. Louis. I could use your help in finding him."

The scotch was already making my limbs numb and my eyes heavy. I was in no condition to fight the better urges in me to turn a deaf ear. I didn't need this case, but there was a dark energy about her that intrigued me. "Alright, tell me about him."

She took a drag on her cigarette and the exhaled smoke hung over her like a black cloud. "His name is Tom Johnson. I'm Mary Johnson, by the way. About two years ago, our parents died in car accident in Las Vegas. They were not rich people, my dad worked in insurance and my mom was a teacher. They had a house and some savings. My parents left half the savings to Tom, and the remainder plus the house went to me. Tom held a grudge about this. He moved away and never contacted me again. I want to find him. I miss him. Can you help me?" She took a sip of her drink and looked at me intently over the rim of the glass.

"Probably. My office is down the block." I gestured with my drink to the window behind her looking out onto West 55th Street. "You can come by tomorrow and we can talk more about it. I have to tell you I'm expensive, but not any more than most good private detectives."

"Can we do it now?" She reached out and touched my arm, not in a sexy way.

"What's the rush?"

"I'm kind of anxious. I left several urgent matters on hold at home. I have to get back to St. Louis soon."

I was in no mood to go up to my office. I saw a booth opening up next to the jukebox near the back. I gestured to the table, picked up my drink, while she took up hers and her cigarettes and we relocated.

She proceeded to tell me that her brother was a carpenter and worked in construction. She gave me a photo of him, and I noticed that he looked nothing like her. She was very fair, but Tommy was dark-haired and somewhat swarthy.

"He took after my father, while I took after my mother."

"You got the better end of the deal, " I said. She laughed and smiled for the first time that night. "Where can I reach you?" I asked.