Dirty Work | Page 5

at him, too. "Leave me the fuck alone!" She turned back to me,
her mascara running all over her face, and spit on my left shoe. Then
she shoved her way through the crowd and started running back down
Speedway, back the way she came.
*
I started shaking too, as soon as I got in the truck. I shook all the way to
Dennis's office.
He was with "one of his people" when I came in. After a few minutes
his door opened and this good-looking Chicano came out. He was in
his twenties, with longish hair and a mustache and an expensive black
leather coat that hung down to his knees. He smiled at the red haired
receptionist and pointed at her and said, "You be good, now."
"You too, Javier."
"No chance," he said, and rubbed his mustache and sniffed. The
receptionist laughed. I couldn't help but think that Dennis was paying
him more than ten bucks an hour for whatever it was he did.
Dennis was standing in the doorway of his office. "Come on in," he
said.
I sat on the edge of the armchair. It wasn't really built for that and it
made me feel off-balance. There was a dusty-looking mirror and a soda
straw on his desk.
"You want a little toot?"

I shook my head. "It's about this case. This is really nasty. I don't know
if I can go on with it."
"Okay," he said. He put the mirror and the straw in the top center
drawer and then got a bank bag out of another one. It was one of those
rubberized deals with the zipper and the little lock, except it wasn't
zipped or locked. "How many hours did you have?"
I guess I expected him to argue with me at least, maybe even offer me
something else. "Call it seven," I said. "And two parking receipts." I put
my log sheet with the license numbers on it and the receipts on the
corner of his desk. I felt small sitting there, just waiting for him to pay
me.
"So what happened?" he said.
"She turned on me, started screaming. Said I was trying to scare her
off."
"Gave you the old not-a-moment's-peace bit, right?" He counted out
four twenties and put them in front of me. "Haven't got any singles, you
can keep the change."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Well, I understand. If you can't hack it..."
"It's not that I can't hack it, I just don't see why I should want to."
Dennis sat back in his chair. Today he was wearing his casual outfit. I'd
never seen a silk jacket before, but Charlene had showed me pictures
and I was pretty sure that's what it was. The pants were khaki, the shirt
was pale blue, the shoes had little tassels on them. "Let me explain
something to you. This business isn't about who makes the most noise
or who sheds the most tears. At least it's not supposed to be. It's about
the truth. And the truth is not always what it seems. Ever have some
asshole nearly run you off the road, and then he gives you the finger? A
guilty conscience can make for a lot of righteous-sounding anger. This

Rochelle bimbo has been going to one of those dyke counselling
centers, and who knows what kind of crap they've been feeding her."
"But what if she's telling the truth?"
"If she is, my client goes to jail, probably does ten years of hard time. If
she's lying, she could go up herself for perjury. These are not
matchsticks we're playing for, here." He leaned forward again. Every
time he moved he did something different with his voice and I felt my
emotions getting yanked around in another direction. "Look, I
understand where you're coming from. It takes a while to build up your
callouses. Just like working on an oil rig, right? You get a lot of blisters
at first and it hurts like hell. Then you toughen up and you can really
get the job done." He put the bank bag in the drawer. "Take the
afternoon off, think it over. If you still want out, call me tonight, I'll put
somebody else on the case. I'll be here in the office, I'm working late all
week. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. I took the small stack of bills and folded it and put it in
my front pants pocket. I wondered when was the last time Dennis got a
blister on his hands.
As I got up he said, "Just one thing you want to keep in mind.
Everybody's got something to hide."
*
I can't remember the last time I had that much cash in my pocket. It
made me a little drunk.