“That’s me. What do you want?”
Finally, a faint smile. He handed him a business card and said, “J. W. Gross, Private Investigator.”
Henry actually exhaled but tried not to show it. The man was offering a card, not a warrant. He took it, examined it, flipped it, found nothing on the back. A private eye with an address in Nashville. He offered the card back as if he had no interest whatsoever, but Gross ignored the gesture.
“A real pleasure,” Henry said.
“Same here. Got a minute?”
“No. I gotta job and I’m running late.”
Gross shrugged but made no effort to leave. “Two minutes is all I ask and it’ll be worth it, maybe.”
“One minute and talk fast.”
Gross glanced around and said, “Let’s step inside.”
Inside would certainly mean more than one minute, but Henry stood down and backed away. Gross closed the door behind him and Henry glanced at his watch like a real hard-ass.
Gross said, “I gotta client with a friend who’s loaded and needs a job, know what I mean?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You come highly recommended, Mr. Taylor. A real pro with a lot of experience, a man who gets things done.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, never have been. Don’t even like cops.”
“For all I know you’re wearing a wire. What the hell’s going on?”
Gross laughed, spread his arms wide, and said, “Search me. Want me to take off my shirt?”
“Oh no, I’m seeing enough. One minute’s up. I’m busy.”
Gross gave another fake smile and said, “Sure. But it’s a lot of money. A lot more than Biloxi.”
A mule kick in the gut could not have landed harder. Henry’s jaw dropped as he glared at Gross, unable to speak.
Gross took in his reaction and said, “Fifty grand, cash. You got my number.”
He turned around, left the room, and shut the door.
Henry stared at it for a long time as his mind spun out of control. No one knew about Biloxi but himself and his contact there. Or did they? Obviously so. Henry had told no one; he never did. It was impossible to survive in his business if secrets were divulged. Someone in Biloxi had loose lips. Word had spread through the underworld that Henry Taylor had struck again. Henry, though, didn’t care for the reputation. That would only attract cops.
He cleaned the filthy carpets for two hours, then needed a break and some pain pills. He drove to the downtown library in Union City and flipped through the phone directories of the largest cities and towns in Tennessee. In the Nashville yellow pages he found a small ad for J. W. Gross, Private Investigator. Honest. Reliable. Twenty Years’ Experience.
He scoffed at anyone who advertised honesty.
He went to his office, took a pain pill, and stretched out on an army cot he often used for naps. The meds finally kicked in and the pain subsided. He picked up the phone and called a friend. The number was traced to a home in Brentwood, Tennessee, in the Nashville metro area.
They were listening.
Henry said, “Say, met a private dick from your hometown. Know anybody named J. W. Gross?”
The friend replied, “Why should I know a private dick?”
“Thought you knew everyone on the shadier side.”
“Well, I know you.”
“Ha ha. You mind making a call or two, check the guy out?”