Pigs Get Fat (Trace 4) Read Online Free Page A

got your message about the insurance policy. Sorry I couldn’t pick up the telephone right away, but I was working with a client. I don’t like to get on the phone when I’m with a client ’cause I like to give them my undivided attention. That’s the way we operate here at the Mabley agency. Every client is number one in our book. Número Uno. That’s the way this agency’s been built and that’s why we’re the 287th largest agency in California, not counting car-insurance agencies.” He finally paused for breath and Trace said, “Very commendable.”
    “You said something on the telephone about a policy?” Mabley said.
    “Yes, but that was a lie,” Trace said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “That was a lie. I just wanted to get your attention,” Trace said. “I’m Devlin Tracy Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
    “No. Should it?”
    “I’m with Garrison Fidelity. Marks asked me to call you.”
    “Oh. You’re the investigator he mentioned.”
    “What did he say about me?” Trace asked.
    “He said you worked for them sometimes.”
    “Did he seem pleased with my work?”
    “He sort of said that you had a personality problem, actually,” Mabley said. “Nothing serious, mind you. Just that you were difficult to get along with sometimes.”
    “Good,” Trace said. “That’s the way I always want Groucho to think of me. He said you had a problem.”
    “Groucho. That’s a hot one. Is that his nickname?”
    “No. Actually Walter is his nickname,” Trace said. “His real name is Groucho, but he doesn’t like to use it because…well, you know the insurance business. People are pretty conservative. They might not feel right handing their money to somebody named Groucho Marks. But he really loves the name. It was a favorite of his father, Karl, too. Next time you talk to him, tell him I told you. So what’s your problem?”
    “I don’t think it’s a real big problem,” Mabley said. He had the voice of a natural insurance man, Trace thought. It treaded through life’s waters, never judgmental, never anything but monotone. It was a voice without a bone in it. He was saying, “Just a problem about procedure, but I don’t know what’s the best thing to do. That’s why I called Walter.”
    “Groucho. Remember. Groucho,” Trace said.
    “Right. I’ve got to remember that. Groucho Marks. That’s a good one.”
    “So what’s the problem?” Trace repeated.
    “Listen, could I see you tomorrow? It’s too complicated maybe to go into on the telephone.”
    “That’s kind of a pain in the ass,” Trace said. “You see, I’m at this real swinging convention and I’d hate to miss a moment of it.”
    “I’m in the city,” Mabley said. “I could meet you. I’ll buy you lunch.”
    “Your restaurant doesn’t serve octopus, does it?” Trace asked.
    “I don’t think so. I could probably get them to get some for you, though, if it’s real important.”
    “No, no,” Trace said. “Just leave things the way they are. I’ll come down tomorrow. Around noontime.”
    “Good. I’ll be waiting for you.” Mabley gave Trace an address in San Francisco’s rundown Mission District and said, “You can’t miss it. There’s a big sign of a hand over the front door.”
    “Open, no doubt,” Trace said.
    “That’s a hot one,” Mabley said, and Trace hung up.
    He had many drinks more while waiting for Chico. She never did come into the bar. When he went up to his room just after “last call,” he listened at the adjoining door. Trace could hear two sets of little Japanese snores, mother and daughter, and he went to bed annoyed and frustrated.
    First, though, he took a piece of hotel stationery, wrote a note, and slid it under the door.
    It read: “Chico, Please don’t disturb us. We’ll probably sleep late.”
    In the morning he found a note under his side of the door: “Dear Trace, The four of us didn’t see your note until this morning. Hope we didn’t make too much noise.