ones. It kept you humble and out there hustling. Or it should.
“Not too shabby for a one-man operation.” Blankenship handed over three sheets of paper. “But it’s safe to say, you ain’t setting the world on fire.”
The pages’ bulleted lines noted Jack’s Social Security number, previous and current home and office addresses, savings and checking account balances, registration info on the Taurus and his pickup, average utility bills at his office and apartment…Junior G-man stuff either in public records or easily obtainable if you knew where to look.
What raised Jack’s hackles was an account of his activities over the past week. Blankenship had tailed him and Jack hadn’t even noticed. Which explained the Lexus driver’s sudden hinkiness last Friday.
He balled the sheets and tossed them into the backseat. “Whatever your game is, sport, I’m not playing. Now get outa my car, before you void the warranty on the shock absorbers.”
Blankenship blanched, then exhaled, as though a lung had collapsed. “I worked like a dog on that report. I thought you’d be impressed.” He stretched a shirtsleeve to mop the sweat trickling down his muttonchops. “The correspondence school instructor said that showing we can run background checks is the best résumé we can have.”
God deliver Jack from schmucks with matchbook private-detective-school diplomas. And from the Missouri law mandating a year’s apprenticeship with a licensed investigator. That and a written exam weeded out the wanna-be overnight Sam Spades, but presented certain liability issues. Like mentorship being a pain in the butt for a working, marginally successful P.I.
“I live with my mom, so I can work for free,” Blankenship wheedled. “Double the manpower, double your billable hours. Maybe triple ’em.”
Halve them was more like it. Jack needed Baby Huey under his wing like a duck needs a concrete flak jacket. “Sorry, but like you said, McPhee Investigations is a one-man agency.”
“It wasn’t when it was Gregory, Aimes & Watkins.” Blankenship shrugged. “Okay, so Watkins was dead and Aimes’s wheel was throwing spokes before Chuck Gregory took you on. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have a license, much less your name painted on the window.”
With uncustomary patience, Jack said, “I was in the right place at the right time.” His inflection relayed as opposed to you. “Chuck wanted to retire and he loved showing rookies the ropes. Me, I’d rather hang myself with them.”
Desperation edged Blankenship’s laugh. “Come on, gimme a thirty-day trial. If it doesn’t work out, no hard feelings. At least I’ll have a month’s experience to add to my résumé.”
Jack’s eyes rose to room 266’s window, then lowered to the dashboard clock. By the time Blankenship extricated himself from the passenger’s seat, Mr. and Mrs. Smith could waltz out arm in arm from the building’s rear entrance.
He’d also bet McPhee Investigations hadn’t topped Blankenship’s list of employment prospects. The Park City telephone directory’s business pages advertised about two dozen agencies, including a pricey nationally franchised outfit. If the kid had a brain, he’d started there and worked his way down.
“What I will do,” Jack said, stashing the camera equipment on the floorboard, “is give you some friendly advice, while I drive you around front to your vehicle.”
“It isn’t here.” Blankenship yanked on the shoulder harness. “I took a cab so I wouldn’t blow your surveillance.”
Well, well. That hiked Jack’s previous estimation a few notches. Not enough to hire him, but maybe the kid had a brighter future than he thought. Wheeling around the motel’s east side, he said, “Where to?”
“1010 West Danbury.”
Jack gripped the steering wheel tighter—1010 West Danbury was his office address.
“I can’t wait to show you what I can do with a computer. The background check on you? Just a warm-up.” Blankenship played an air-piano solo. “Finger exercise.”
Jack reconsidered a long-held supposition about predestination. To wit, days that started off swell were fated to free-fall into the toilet. Conversely, days beginning with a cosmic swirly would inevitably improve—though the increments ranged from microscopic to worthy of a parade with lots of tubas, bass drums and scantily clad majorettes.
So far, this one was a crapper with an automatic flush.
He didn’t need a computer geek. A trusted subcontractor provided information above and beyond Jack’s expertise or time constraints. Much as he sort of admired Blankenship’s chutzpah, he’d sabotaged his fledging career from the get-go. Ditto, no doubt, at every other agency in town. Giving him the hows and whys wasn’t Jack’s purview, but if the kid listened, he might wise up.
“You’d do about anything to score an apprenticeship,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” Blankenship grinned. “As long as it’s legal.” The latter inferred illegal activities weren’t off the table, depending on the likelihood of police involvement.
“Then make a list of everything you’ve done to impress me, then do the opposite when you apply somewhere else.” Jack braked for a traffic light. “Starting with your wardrobe.”
Blankenship looked down, thoroughly bewildered. “I paid a bundle for this shirt at a Sister Hazel concert. It’s a collector’s item.”
“Frame it and hang it on the wall. The grungy jeans and tennis shoes? Garbage.” Jack adjusted his tie, a maroon silk with understated silver threads. “You want to be a professional, dress like one. Buy a razor and get a haircut. Want to work at a car wash? You’re all set.”
“Easy for you to say. Got any idea how much clothes cost when you’re my size?”
“So drop a hundred pounds.” Jack reassessed the belly garroted by the lap belt. “Make it a hundred and a quarter. Big as you are, one foot pursuit and you’re DOA from a massive coronary.”
Blankenship’s face flushed beet red. “Sure, I’m a little overweight, but I was born with a really slow metabolism and—”
Jack plucked two sesame seeds from his chin whiskers. “How many Big Macs did you slam for lunch?”
“Three, but—”
“Large fries?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Here’s a guess. You chased it down with a diet soda.”
A horn honked behind them. Jack accelerated a half block, then joined the queue in the left-turn lane. “This is America, kid. Eat whatever you want, whenever you want, but find a desk job. Investigating’s too physical for a guy your size.”
He hooked a right off First Street onto West Danbury. “Voice of experience. I stacked on seventy, eighty pounds driving a truck. Losing it was a bitch, but eating half as much, half as often did the trick. To put some distance between you and the fridge, sign up for some college courses—psychology, criminology, basic photography, Finance 101. Computers are fantastic, but not the be-all, end-all.”
Another
