"Elrod, P N - Vampire Files 08 - Dark Sleep E-Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

above a greasy spoon, like what I'd been used to before I stopped eating solid
food. It was clean and well lighted, with no lip-rouge stains on the glasses,
and the ashtrays were emptied regularly. Not my kind of place these nights, but
still fairly respectable.
Escott had chosen it because you could seat yourself, hence my place in a booth
with Miss Sommerfeld, and his at a table twenty feet away with Jason McCallen.
From my vantage I could easily block the front and back exits in case McCallen
decided to hoof it before our business with him was done.
Our client wasn't too happy being so close to him, but with her short dark hair
hidden by a gray cloche hat and the rest of her covered up with a matching coat
and galoshes, she looked like a thousand other Chicago women for this time of
year. Besides, McCallen was angled away from us, and would have to turn to spot
her.
I'd tried to dress to blend in as well, leaving my pricey double-breasted suits
and silk shirts in the closet in favor of a nondescript jacket and slacks, both
in dark blue. My newsboy's cloth hat was stuffed in a pocket, and I wore black
shoes with gum soles. My hair was trimmed, combed, and slicked straight back
from my face. The impression I hoped to give was that of a laborer taking his
girl out on a Friday-night date. Nothing fancy, but not insultingly cheap.
Miss Sommerfeld pushed her vegetables around and savagely speared a single
kernel of corn. She shoved it into her mouth and chewed on it for half a minute.
"Stop staring at me," she growled.
I broke off and looked down at the mirror. Instead of paying attention to
business, I'd been distracted by how long it took her to eat the corn kernel.
The tiny image in my hand shivered and settled. It was the same as the last time
I'd checked, with Escott and McCallen at their table facing off over cups of
cooling coffee. My partner was lean and tall, beak-nosed, dressed neatly in a
stuffed-shirt sort of way, looking like a fussy bank teller. McCallen was just
as tall, but more massive, with at least an extra fifty pounds of solid muscle
riding easily on his shoulders and arms. He was big, hairy down to his knuckles,
and dressed like a longshoreman. I couldn't blame Miss Sommerfeld for seeking
help with the Escott Agency in dealing with him.
According to her story, McCallen had taken away an envelope of papers that were
not his. They were worth a lot to her, enough to hire us to get them back again.
She didn't want publicity, so the theft went unreported to the cops, and her
lawyers had no clue about the incident.
When she first came to Escott's office early this afternoon to rent his services
as a private agent, he made a good stab at trying to find out the contents of
the envelope, but she clammed up and shook her head.
"It's personal and private," she told him. "Nothing illegal, I assure you, but
they don't belong to him. Will this cover your fee?" Then she put five matching
pictures of Andrew Jackson on his desk and that was that.
He called home at sunset to give me the short version of the deal and what sort
of help he would need from me if I was available. I was—at least until around
two in the morning when my girlfriend got off work.
"Are you out of your mind accepting a case without knowing the whole story?" I
asked, running a hand over my beard stubble as I leaned toward the mouthpiece of
the kitchen phone.
"Miss Sommerfeld's within her rights, Jack," he said lightly. "And it's not as
murky as you think. I happen to have more background on her than you do."