The Adjal of Jimmy Temple

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Half way up Roscomare the Lexus was still after us like an upside-down mortgage. I asked Wanda to drop me at my office. She swung smoothly into the parking lot and stopped. The fat guy in the Lexus slid past us and parked at Bel Air Foods.

"I have a few things to do," I said to Wanda. "Why don't you drive to my place and talk to Virginia? I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I should run home and get into something more appropriate for dinner," she said.

"That'll work out fine," I said. "I might be a little longer than ten minutes. I do have other clients besides you, you know."

"I'm the only important one," she said.

"That depends on whether or not you pay me the grand you owe me," I said.

Her slick answer to that was, "I'll be back as fast as I can."

I got out and watched Wanda make a U-turn and disappear down the street. I went up to my office, switched on the air conditioner and watched the Lexus. It didn't take long. The fat man got out of his car, marched over to the stairs and slowly climbed them. He reminded me of Sydney Greenstreet in The Maltese Falcon. I wondered if he had a mirthless chuckle.

My office has those environmentally friendly windows that are gold-tinted. I like them because they act as a cheap two-way mirror. If you're outside you see yourself. If you're inside you see whoever's outside. I watched the fat man look in, smooth back his thinning brown hair, tighten his Windsor-knotted black knit tie, smooth the lapels of his white hopsack sports jacket, then knock softly on my door. I told him to come on in.

"Are you Mr. Temple?" His baritone voice brimmed with warmth and sincerity. I mistrusted him instantly.

"Call me Jimmy." I gestured at the Pine Captain's chair, which he managed to squash himself into.

"My card." It had a name embossed in that gold filigree that's hard to read: Dwight Devlin.

"How can I help you, Mr. Devlin?"

"I'm looking for a childhood sweetheart."

"What's her name?"

"Priscilla," he said. "Priscilla Henderson. They were Swedes."

"When did you last see her?"

"Thirty-one years ago. I was sixteen, she was a year younger. We went to school in Coronation, Alberta. In Canada."

"You're Canadian?"

"No. My father worked in the oil business. Coronation was little more than a village. Maybe eight hundred people. Ranching and grain country. There was a sign at the edge of town that said 'Broom Capital of the World.'"

"They made brooms?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Broom is a type of grain."

His story didn't sound right, too pat, too much irrelevant detail. But I nodded encouragingly, curious to see how he'd react to the price. "Five hundred dollars to find old girlfriends out-of-state," I said.

"A bargain if you find her," Devlin said. Talk about "pat," it was like he had rehearsed it. He opened his wallet, counted out five crisp one hundred dollar bills and set them on the table. He did this slowly and carefully, allowing himself time enough to look around my office with an all too friendly expression that couldn't hide predatory interest.

"Ah, Raymond Chandler! One of my favorites." He squeezed out of the chair and waddled over to the bookcase and ran a hand over the set, but he wasn't looking at them, he was searching the volumes on either side.