1979 - A Can of Worms Read Online Free

elevator.
    Charles Edwards, who handled the financial end of the Agency, came out of his office and joined me as we walked to the elevator. He was short, dark, middle-aged and tough. He glanced at me from behind his pebble glasses disapprovingly.
    “Just the man!” I said as I thumbed the elevator call button. “Let’s have a fifty, pal. Deduct it off my next pay. This is an emergency.”
    “You are always asking for an advance,” Edwards said, moving into the elevator. “The Colonel wouldn’t approve.”
    “Who’s going to tell him? Come on, pal, you wouldn’t want to deprive my old mother from her gin, would you?”
    As the elevator descended, Edwards took out his wallet and produced a fifty bill.
    “That comes off your next pay, Anderson. Remember that.”
    “Thanks.” I snapped up the bill. “I’ll do the same for you in an emergency.”
    The doors swished open and Edwards, giving me a curt nod, walked away. I thumbed the button to the basement garage, got in the Maser, gunned the engine which gave off a deep-throated roar, then I edged the car into the thick, home-going traffic.
     
    * * *
     
    Bertha talked me into taking her to the Seagull. She had a special talent for talking any sucker her way. I was sure she would talk her way out of her coffin when the time came.
    As soon as we had settled at the table and I had ordered very dry martinis, I sat back and regarded her.
    She looked good enough to eat. Her flame coloured hair, her big green eyes and ochre tan, plus a body that could and did stop traffic, all added up to a scrumptious, sexy explosion.
    To look at her, apart from her glamour, you would have thought she was just a gorgeous, sexy birdbrain. She could put on a bright, interested expression that fooled the guys who were suckers enough to imagine that she was sincerely interested in them, longed to listen to their boasting about their big, successful deals, their prowess at golf or fishing or what-have-you, but she didn’t fool me. I had known her long enough to know that Bertha Kinsley was strictly interested only in money and herself.
    In spite of this failing, she was gay, gorgeous and sensational between the sheets. I would rather spend money on her than on any other girl I knew. She was strictly value for money even though she came high.
    “Don’t stare at me like that,” she said. “You look as if you’re about to drag me under the table and rape me.”
    “That’s a good idea!” I said. “Let’s show these creeps what we can do together in a confined space.”
    “Quiet! I’m hungry!” She began to study the menu like a refugee from a detention centre. “Hmmm! King prawns! Certainly! Then something solid.” She flashed her sexy smile at Luigi, the Maître d’ who had approached our table. “What can you suggest for a starving woman, Luigi?”
    “Don’t listen to her,” I said firmly. “We’ll have the prawns and steaks.”
    Luigi glanced at me coldly, then beamed at Bertha.
    “I was about to suggest, Miss Kingsley, our spit chicken, stuffed with lobster meat and served in a cream sauce with truffles.”
    “Yes!” Bertha practically screamed.
    Ignoring me, Luigi wrote on his pad, smiled again at Bertha and went away.
    “I have exactly fifty bucks,” I lied. “If it comes to more, and it will, I’ll have to borrow from you, chick.”
    “Never borrow from a woman,” Bertha said. “It’s not chivalrous. Wave your credit card. That’s what credit cards are all about.”
    “My credit card is strictly for business.”
    “So what? We’re on business, aren’t we?”
    The prawns arrived.
    While we ate, I asked, “Does the name Waldo Carmichael mean anything to you?”
    “So it’s business.” Bertha smiled at me.
    “Could be. Answer the question, honey. Ever heard of the name?”
    She shook her head.
    “New one on me. Waldo Carmichael?”
    “Still playing name games. Russ Hamel. Mean anything to you?”
    “You kidding? Russ Hamel! I love his books!”