More Good Old Stuff

James Fosting turned out to be a tall guy with a long leathery-looking face. About thirty-five, I guessed. He wore the local equivalent of a Brooks Brothers suit, and under the high forehead, the blue eyes had a harsh and knowing gleam.

I gave him my best-variety smile and handed him the letter. I didn’t sit down until he asked me to. There are cops who claim that they can tell a wrongo in one third of a second. Those cops have holes in their heads. No hick cop has ever made me on first look. You have to have presence. And a nice, open, honest smile.

I sat and watched him read the letter. His eyes flicked down it, then he started in again from the beginning and read it more slowly.

“Hmmmmm,” he said. “Very flattering, Mr. Quinn. I’m honored.”

“Can I assume that it’s okay with you, Chief?”

“With strings. One — I took over a very bad situation here, Mr. Quinn. Very bad. Straightening it out is still a fourteen-hour-a-day job. I can’t slight that job. You’ll have to get a lot of your information secondhand. Two — I want to read every word you write, and approve the final draft. One wrong sentence, and my political enemies might use it as an excuse to move me out of here.”

I knew he was normal, and I knew he had swallowed the hook. I didn’t even have to give the line a yank to set the hook.

Already he was thinking of himself in that book. City builder. Ha!

He had been crisp and businesslike, but now he had that old pleased gleam in his eye. He pushed a button on his desk.

The lush item came in briskly. “Miss Calder, this is Mr. Quinn.” I stood up, and we nodded at each other.

“Mr. Quinn is including a write-up of me in a book that has been accepted by a good publishing house. What shape is your work in?”

“I’m nearly caught up.”

“Good. I’m assigning you to Mr. Quinn. Have Miss Willington take over your desk. Explain the ropes to her. You are at liberty to give Mr. Quinn any information he may request. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was still standing. Chief Fosting stood up too. He stuck his hand out, and I took it. “When she’s given you all she knows, come to me to get the blanks filled in.”

I sat patiently on the bench again while Miss Calder finished a few letters and got hold of a chubby item named Willington and gave her the routine. Willington acted nervous, but pleased.

She sat on the other side of the booth.

I think of women in terms of music. I don’t know why. Gloria was barrelhouse piano with a driving bass.

There have been women who were bright, raw trumpet, or the gutty blast of a trombone. One or two have been a tom-tom beat.

But this Janet Calder was something else. A string section. Violins. The longhair brand of music. But neither cool nor faint nor dull.

She was nineteen or twenty. Blond. A wide, sensitive mouth, with a flare to her nostrils and wide eyes of a blue-violet shade. Keen eyes. They didn’t look as if they’d miss a great deal.

Her young body was almost excessively feminine, but she didn’t throw it around. She carried herself in a way that showed she could swim, play tennis, ride. Her hands and arms were tanned. Her eyebrows made her hair look dyed, which it wasn’t. They were thick black eyebrows, unplucked. They made me want to lean across the table between us and run the tip of my finger along them. They looked as though they would feel like fur.