trying to get this done.”
“And what do you want me to do, exactly?”
“Tag along on a couple of assignments, act as my eyes and ears if I pick up a tail, provide a little muscle if things get rough.”
“Muscle’s all you’re going to get, since I don’t carry a gun.”
“That’s good, since firearms give me a rash. We have a deal?”
Despite a couple of rough edges I’d picked up on, and despite the way Anne had uncharacteristically swooned for the guy, I agreed that we did. I didn’t really have a choice, as my bank account could attest. Hershey handed me several of the twenties as a down payment, and I got his e-mail to send him a contract.
“So what’s the first job?”
“You know the Clarmont?”
“The steakhouse, on South High?”
He nodded. “First assignment is having a drink there with me, tomorrow night.”
“A drink?”
“Or two. Plus you’d be on the clock.”
“Why the Clarmont?”
“Legislature’s back in session after Memorial Day with the push on to pass this damn bill. Everyone in town will be there. One-stop shopping for tips. And suspects.”
“Half the state’s powerbrokers eat and drink at the Clarmont. Like one of them’s going to risk making a run at you while you’re sipping your gin and tonic?”
“First of all, it’s vodka and tonic. Second, how about we just call this ‘Department of Better Safe Than Sorry.’ Third, like I said, I want to send a message.”
“OK. What time?”
“Five o’clock. Pick me up?” He asked for my cell phone number, and texted me the address.
“See you then,” I said, starting to close the door. But Anne, coming back up the hall, interrupted.
“Oh, good, you’re still here,” she said. “I realized I had this with me.” She handed Hershey a paperback.
“The Android’s Dream,” she said. “By John Scalzi. I thought you might like it, you know, because of Philip K. Dick.”
“How kind of you,” Hershey said, beaming. “I’ll get right to it. Then we’ll have a perfect excuse for coffee.”
“I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
After we said our good-byes and I shut the door, Anne and I walked down the hall to the kitchen.
“Nice guy,” she said a little too enthusiastically.
“Right,” I replied, focusing on pancake duty. But what I was thinking, my face getting a little warm, was why did Hershey know the title of my girlfriend’s favorite science fiction novel, and I didn’t?
2
I PICKED HERSHEY UP LATE THE NEXT afternoon at his house in a modest, well-kept subdivision tucked between Hague and Trabue Avenues on the west side. The beige, split-level ranch was a little plain but had prettier landscaping, a neater lawn, and more flowers than I’d ever managed.
“Nice place,” I said as he got into my van.
“It’s all right. I mainly just eat and sleep here. Most of the time I’m downtown.”
“You have an office?”
“The nearest coffee shop. Plus a cubicle in the Statehouse pressroom.”
“Family?”
“Do multiple ex-girlfriends count?”
I didn’t reply. I drove slowly up the street, checking fore and aft for any company. Unless people walking their dogs while blabbing on their cell phones were considered a threat, we were OK for now.
“Have you been followed out here?”
“Couple times. Someone tailed me last week as I was going to work.”
“Get a look at the driver?”
He shook his head.
“Black or white?”
“Couldn’t tell.”
“Man or woman? Fish or fowl?”
“Sorry.”
“No offense, but aren’t you supposed to be a trained observer?”
“I’ve got a blind spot when it comes to people wishing me harm. Which is why I hired you.”
“Smart move,” I said, doubtfully.
THE CLARMONT SITS JUST south of Sycamore, where the Brewery District with its nice restaurants and well-heeled brick office buildings starts to peter out and the grittier South End begins. “Seafood & Steak,” its red-lettered sign advertised. The parking lot was nearly full when we pulled in.
As Hershey held the door for me, I nearly collided with a woman rushing out, head bowed over her phone.
“Excuse me,” she said, without looking up.
“Watch yourself, Lauren,” Hershey said. “This guy might flag you for an illegal tackle.”
She glanced at Hershey and frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Warning people not to text and walk. Anything good in there?”
He pointed at the thick blue three-ring binder she was holding in her left hand. “Fair Funding Focus,” it said on the cover.
“You tell me,” she said. “You seem to know all about it.” She had short, honey-blond hair, blue eyes that searched and then dismissed me a little too quickly, like a dog groomer snubbing a mutt, and a hint of a southern accent; I was guessing Georgia, or maybe east Texas.
“I’ve only scratched the surface,” Hershey said. “Have you persuaded them to deep-six the charter school amendments yet?”
“Oh, very funny.”
“Just a question.”
“A dumb one, as usual,” she said, and brushed past us.
“Friend of yours?” I said, as we went inside.
“Frenemy, like most of the people I know around here.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s
