"Mike Resnick - Dog In The Manger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

“They were very polite...”
“Everyone in Cincinnati is.”
“...but I got the distinct impression that hunting for show dogs is pretty low on their list of
priorities.”
“How about hunting for kennel girls?” I asked.
“We're just across the river from Kentucky and maybe 20 miles from Indiana,” he said. “The
second she crosses the border, with or without Baroness, she's out of their jurisdiction. I got
the impression they figured she was in some other state before I got home Sunday night. So
they're officially looking for her and for Baroness—but, damn it, I want someone who's doing
nothing but looking for them.”
“How did you happen to choose me?” I asked. I didn't much care, but it would be nice to hear
that a few satisfied customers had taken a little time off their divorce proceedings to go
around town saying nice things about me.
“I picked your name out of the phone book.”
“It would probably be politic of me to accept that answer, Mr. Lantz,” I replied, “but if I did, you
might start wondering just what you were getting for your money. I'm the only detective in the
book who doesn't have some kind of ad. You can barely find my name stuck in there between
Norman Security and Prestige Investigations. And they misprinted my address.” Probably, I
added mentally, because I'm always six weeks late paying my bill. “So who put you onto me?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Bill Striker.”
“You went to the Striker Agency first?”
“I handle a schnauzer for him. He told me he was too busy to take on another client just now.”
“And he recommended me?”
“He suggested that you might need the work.”
Which was true, of course, but it sounded just a bit denigrating, and I decided that the next
time Mrs. Martinelli called me at three in the morning to tell me that devil-worshipping godless
communists were slithering down her chimney with the intention of raping her for the greater
glory of Mother Russia, I would tell her that Soviet rapists were the special province of the
Striker Agency.
“Did he tell you my fee, too?” I asked.
Lantz shook his head.
“Four hundred a day plus expenses, and a bonus if I succeed. I'll bill you every Friday, but I
need a retainer in advance.” I was ready to clear my throat and say that I had really meanttwo
hundred, but he didn't even flinch, so I opened up a desk drawer and whipped out a pair of
contracts with the grace and finesse of Michael Jordan driving toward the hoop, back before
he gave it all up to hit .220 in the minors. “This is my standard contract. Sign both copies, and
keep one of them for your files.”
He did so without even bothering to read them, and pulled out his checkbook.
“Will a week's retainer be sufficient?”
I nodded, and tried not to look too eager as he made it out and handed it over.
“I'll bring Alice's photo by tomorrow morning,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I'll want her home address, too,” I said.
“She lives with my wife and me.”
“Her previous address, then, as well as her parents’. And you'd better give me the dog
owner's address and phone number too.”
“Nettles? What do you needhis address for?” demanded Lantz.
I shrugged. “If nothing else, to let him know you've hired a detective to track down the girl and
the dog. That ought to convince him of your sincerity.”
And of course, if Nettles felt like hiring a detective who was on the scene, I was sure we could
work something out.