Riggs is Here

Riggs is Here
by Jackson Gregory, Jr.
Tommy Riggs? Well, there are some that say he's a smart little guy.
"Smart as a whip," they'll tell you. "You watch that guy. One of these
days--"
And then there are others, the guys like Mac down at Ryan's place and
like George Setter. "Him?" they'll say, and laugh just a little bit,
pleasantly because they like him, but: "That guy--he beats everything.
Tommy, he sure is dumb. He's got just one idea in his head, and not
enough brains left over to know when he's licked. If the guy'd wise
up--"
You, if you saw Tommy, would probably remember him by the
infectious way he grins. Otherwise he's just a short, stocky guy with
sandy hair and a homely face. But when he grins, unless you're pretty
sour on the world, you grin back.
So they can't help liking him even if he is dumb. Like this day. He was
grabbing a beer and cheese-on-rye at the bar in Ryan's restaurant. Mac
was in back of the bar. Then George Setter came in.
Setter was built with a wide-shouldered leanness--a dark, good-looking
guy. You could see at a glance that he knew his way around. The suit
he wore told you that; so did the snappy-looking roadster that he had
parked at the curb, outside. Only twenty-seven and a year younger than
Tommy, he knew ropes that Tommy Riggs would never guess at.
"Brandy and water, Mac," he said, and then to Tommy, kidding: "Hi y'u,
copper!"
Setter laughed. "Sure! Y'u been seein' him once a month for the last
two years. Why don't y'u wise up, kid? That guy's not goin' to give y'u a
job."

"Yes he is!" Tommy stated. "He told me that--"
"Look, Tommy." Setter took his brandy, killed it. Then he said: "Y'u
and I been pals for a long time now, and I hate to see y'u go on bein' a
sucker like this. Even if Carey did give y'u a job, then what? A private
dick never makes any jack. Why don't y'u let me get y'u a job?"
"I got a job, George."
"That!" Setter snorted. "That's no job!"
Tommy's job was washing dishes in the back of Ryan's restaurant for
eats and a dinky room upstairs and five bucks a week.
"It's pretty good," Tommy told him. "And anyhow, Carey told me that
he was just waiting to see what I could do. If I can crack a case on the
outside, he'll fix a spot for me."
THAT wasn't strictly true. He had arrived at the door to International
Agency's office well before eight that morning. When Carey's secretary
got there to open up, she looked at him, sighed, and let him in to wait.
Carey came in briskly at eight thirty. He said, "Hello, Dot," and then
spotted Tommy sitting in the chair by the window. Carey's face, lean
and harsh at the best, grew dark as he frowned annoyance. He grunted
and strode into his office.
When Tommy stood up to follow him, the secretary said: "You'd better
wait. Mr. Carey is busy right now." So he waited. People, a lot of them,
because International with its branches in six cities is a big firm, came
in, were escorted to Carey's office and left again.
At eleven thirty Tommy stood up. "There isn't anybody in there now."
"Well--I'll see." The secretary went into Carey's office. Through the
open door, he heard her explain: "That Riggs person is still here."
"Damn it, I'm busy!" Carey exploded. "Tell him--Oh, send him in!"

Tommy went in and closed the door behind him. Grinning, he said:
"Good morning, Mr. Carey. I--"
"I'm sorry, Riggs." Carey's gray eyes were like brittle slate. "I told you
I'd let you know if we had an opening for you. There's nothing yet."
"Sure, I know." Tommy's grin was unperturbed as he sat down in front
of the desk. "I've got something to show you since I was last here."
"That's fine, Riggs, but you'll have to come back later. Right now--"
"Oh, that's all right. It won't take long, Mr. Carey." He took an
envelope out of his coat pocket. There were about a dozen photographs
in it. He slid three of them over to Carey, explained proudly:
"I took those with a microscope I picked up for thirty bucks, and an
Argus camera I'm good with that camera, Mr. Carey, better'n some
guys are with a Leica."
Carey picked up the photographs. Each was a picture of a bullet with a
torn and jagged nose that showed that it had been fired. Numbered
ink-lines were drawn to grooves and scratches on the surface of each
bullet.
Tommy leaned forward. "Those came out of a Smith
Wesson .38/44--yours, Mr. Carey.