The Anonymous Client sw-2 Read online

  The Anonymous Client

  ( Steve Winslow - 2 )

  Parnell Hall

  Parnell Hall

  The Anonymous Client

  1

  Steve Winslow rode uptown in the back of a cab and thumbed through the casting calls in Backstage. They were, as he’d expected, much the same as in last week’s issue. Most of the open auditions were for chorus work. Steve Winslow was neither a singer nor a dancer. Not that he hadn’t done musical comedy in his time-in summer stock you did all the shows, and when a musical came along you faked it. Steve could carry a tune, and laboriously learn a dance step by rote if pressed, but no one was ever going to hire him to do it. Not with the wealth of legitimate singers and dancers New York City had to offer.

  Steve sighed and flipped the page.

  The cab pulled up in front of an office building on West 48th Street. Steve paid the fare, over-tipping as usual. After years of driving a cab himself, Steve had a soft spot for cab drivers.

  Steve folded the paper under his arm, went into the lobby, took the elevator up to the seventh floor, got off and walked down the hall. It was a little after nine, and a mailman with a pushcart was making his morning rounds, sliding letters through the mail slots in the office doors. He had just stopped in front of a door and taken two letters from the cart when Steve walked up.

  “I’ll take those,” Steve said.

  The mailman gave him a funny look. Steve wasn’t surprised. It was October, and Steve was seasonably dressed in brown corduroy pants, a blue T-shirt, and a tweed sports jacket. That, coupled with his shoulder-length dark hair, made him look somewhat younger than his thirty-five years.

  The mailman glanced at the office door. On the frosted glass were the words, “STEVE WINSLOW, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.” The mailman looked back at Steve, hesitated a moment, then handed him the letters, and pushed his cart off down the hall.

  Steve smiled. There was no way the mailman thought he was the lawyer. Probably some office boy hired by the attorney. Steve turned the knob, pushed open the office door.

  Tracy Garvin was seated at her desk reading a book. Without looking at the cover, Steve knew it would be a murder mystery. It was all she ever read.

  Tracy was about twenty-four, with long blonde hair that always seemed to be falling in her face, and large, round-framed glasses that had a habit of getting tangled in the hair. She was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, her usual office attire. Steve didn’t mind. How could he, the way he dressed? And it wasn’t as if he had any clients he wanted to impress.

  Tracy looked up from her book when Steve came in.

  “Good morning, Tracy,” Steve said. He held up the two letters. “Mail’s here.” He tossed the letters on her desk, smiled, and went into his inner office.

  Steve sat down at his desk, tipped his chair back, and unfolded the Backstage.

  “Mr. Winslow.”

  Steve looked up.

  Tracy Garvin was standing in the doorway. The first thing he noticed was that her glasses were folded and in her hand. Steve frowned. In the little he’d seen of Tracy Garvin, one thing he had observed was that when she took off and folded her glasses it usually meant that she was upset about something.

  “Yes,” Steve said.

  Tracy Garvin took a breath. She seemed to be controlling herself with an effort.

  “Mr. Winslow, I haven’t seen you in over two weeks.”

  “I know,” Steve said.

  “Then you come walking in here, toss the mail on my desk, and say, ‘Good morning,’ as if nothing had happened.”

  Steve looked at her. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Tracy said.

  Steve frowned. This was not one of his days. But then, he reflected, not many of them were. “So what’s wrong?”

  Tracy took a breath, blew it out again. “Mr. Winslow, I sit at that desk eight hours a day, five days a week.”

  “I know. That’s what I hired you for.”

  “Yes, but nothing happens. I open the mail and answer it. That takes a good fifteen minutes. And I answer the phone calls, a particularly demanding job, since most days there are none. I sit here all day long and I don’t do anything.”

  “I know,” Steve said. “I have no law practice. I have one client, Sheila Benton. Handling her affairs doesn’t amount to much. She’s in Europe now, so it amounts to even less. There’s no work. I told you that when I hired you.”

  “I know that, but..”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Steve smiled. “I do. You didn’t believe me. You figured it was a law office, so something had to happen. Well, you’re wrong. I have no clients, and I see no prospects of getting clients. But I still need someone to hold down the office. To hang out here and read books all day long. Some people would kill for the job.”

  “I’m not one of them.”

  “So what are you trying to say?”

  Tracy took a breath. “I’m saying I can’t take it. I need something to do. So … well, I’m giving two weeks’ notice. I’ll stay on till you get a replacement.”

  “I see,” Steve said. “So where you gonna go?”

  “I thought I’d try some of the larger law firms.”

  Steve nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. You may have some trouble there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You’re not a paralegal, you’re just a secretary. You have no legal training or education.”

  “I know. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I hate to ask, but I need a recommendation.”

  “I’m afraid my recommendation won’t cut much ice with the larger law firms. But you’re welcome to it. But I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “You think I won’t get a job?”

  “No, I think you might. But if you do, I think you’ll be disappointed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, what do you think you’d do in one of those law firms?”

  “I don’t know. Assist the lawyer. Take notes. Look up things for him.”

  Steve frowned. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s those books you read. Those murder mysteries. Murders, clients, chases. Real life isn’t like that. It isn’t even like L.A. Law. You might as well work for a business firm.”

  Tracy set her jaw, defensively. “Oh yeah?” she said. “You know that for a fact?”

  “No, I’m just telling you what I think. And I think you’d be bored silly.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be worse than here.”

  “Yeah. It could. Here you have no expectations. You sit and read your books all day. There you start off with high hopes, and wind up a bored file clerk.” Steve sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to argue with you, and I don’t want to disillusion you, but I don’t want to send you out of here with false hopes, either. ’Cause you don’t really want work. What you want is to play Della Street to my Perry Mason. And real life isn’t like that. Now, if you want to leave, I can’t stop you. You’re welcome to my recommendation and I wish you good luck. I just think you’re going to be disappointed.”

  Tracy stood looking at him for a moment. She frowned and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Steve Winslow leaned back in his desk chair.

  Damn. He really needed that. Now he’d have to find a new secretary. Not that that should be a problem-if worst came to worst, he could always call one of the temporary agencies. And it wasn’t as if he knew Tracy Garvin well enough to really care if she left.

  But still.

  He’d started the day in a fairly good mood. After years of scratching out a living, of driving taxi
cabs as an out-of-work actor, and then as an out-of-work lawyer, it was real nice to be on an annual retainer. To have enough money coming in to rent an office, hire a secretary, and draw a weekly salary himself. All right, so it wasn’t that much. And all right, so all it really meant was he didn’t have to drive a cab anymore and had more free time to go to more disappointing auditions. And of course, it was galling to have no real law practice. To see his legal education go for nothing. To be washed up as a lawyer after handling just one case.

  Particularly a case he had won. Steve smiled at the irony. Yeah, he’d won the case all right, but no one knew it. Not even Tracy Garvin. Oh, they knew his client got off. They just didn’t know he’d got her off. And the things he’d had to do to win that case, playing the clown in court to take the heat off his client-well, after all that, there was no chance anyone was going to hire him to do anything else.

  But he’d accepted that, and he was used to that, and he was living with it.

  He just didn’t need to have it flung in his face.

  Steve picked up the Backstage, opened it to the casting calls. Shit. More of the same. He folded the paper over, ran his finger down the listings. “Off-Broadway showcase.” Great. A chance to battle a hundred other actors for the chance to work for three months for nothing on the off chance some agent or producer might see his work. “Chorus work.”

  “Chorus work.”

  “Independent casting director accepting pix and resumes.” Christ, had he registered with that one?

  “All right, what the fuck is this?”

  Steve looked up.

  Tracy was standing in the doorway. Her folded glasses were in one hand. A letter was in the other.

  Steve frowned. He’d never been an employer before. Never had an employee. Tracy Garvin was it. But he considered himself a liberal employer. He let her dress as she pleased, do what she liked. And she’d just given notice and he thought he’d taken it well.

  But this was a little much.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tracy strode over to his desk and thrust the letter at him. From her action, it might have been a sword. “This!” she said.

  Steve looked up at her. “And what is that?”

  “A letter.”

  “I can see that. What about it?”

  “Open it.”

  Steve frowned. After all, she was the one who had given notice. Had he offended her in some way? Perhaps the Della Street crack? Had she gone back to her desk, gotten pissed off, and typed up a formal letter of resignation? No, in that case, she wouldn’t be asking him what it was. So what was it?”

  Steve sighed, and took the letter from her. It was typewritten, postmarked, and addressed to him; in fact, it was one of the letters he had just set on her desk.

  The letter had been slit open. Steve reached in and pulled out the contents.

  It was ten one thousand dollar bills.

  2

  There was also a letter.

  Mr. Winslow: I am in a desperate situation and require your services. The matter is extremely delicate and must be handled with the utmost discretion. Enclosed find a retainer of $10,000.

  Steve Winslow read it out loud. He frowned, and looked at the letter again. He looked up to find Tracy glaring at him accusingly. “You did this, didn’t you?” she said.

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “You did this. Because of the books I read. You did it as a joke. Well, fine. You didn’t know I was giving notice. But after I did, not to tell me … well, it isn’t funny.”

  Steve shook his head. “What, are you nuts?”

  “No. You did this, right? You put the ten thousand dollars in there.”

  “Are you kidding?” Steve said. “I don’t have ten thousand dollars. If I did, I sure wouldn’t put it in an envelope and give it to you.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Tracy stared at him. “You mean …?”

  “What?”

  “You mean it’s real?”

  Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be counterfeit, but it looks real to me. Frankly, I’ve never seen a thousand dollar bill before.”

  “No, no. I mean, someone actually sent this to you.”

  “They sure did.”

  Tracy’s jaw dropped open. “Holy shit!”

  Steve smiled. “My sentiments exactly.”

  Tracy’s face was struggling through a myriad of reactions. “But, Jesus Christ. I mean, hey look. I’m sorry. I just thought … I mean, seeing that letter, and-”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s what I would have thought too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you put that ten grand in there to needle me.”

  Tracy could hardly contain herself. “So it’ s real. It happened. Someone just sent you ten thousand bucks!”

  Steve frowned. “Yeah.”

  Tracy looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

  Steve shook his head. This was his day to disillusion her, all right. “I can’t keep it.”

  Tracy’s jaw dropped open again. “What?”

  Steve held up the letter that had been in the envelope with the money. “Did you read this?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s typewritten and unsigned.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it so interesting.”

  Steve shook his head. “That’s the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “This is an anonymous letter. An anonymous retainer.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I can’t keep it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m Sheila Benton’s attorney. I handle her affairs. I can’t take any other case unless I’m sure there won’t be a conflict of interest.”

  “Why would there be?”

  “I have no idea. But until I know for sure, I can’t accept this retainer.”

  Tracy couldn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to believe it. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said. “There isn’t the slightest chance in the world this has anything to do with Sheila Benton. It would be an incredible coincidence.”

  “Even if that were true, I couldn’t discount the possibility. But it’s not.”

  “Why not?’

  “Think about it,” Steve said. “I have no law practice what-so-ever. No one knows about me. The only people who know I’m practicing law at all are people connected with Sheila Benton.”

  Tracy’s face clouded. “Oh. But …”

  “But what?”

  “Oh,” she said in helpless frustration. “You can’t give it back.”

  Steve smiled. “Now there you are absolutely right. I don’t know who it came from, so I can’t give it back. Which puts me in a hell of a position. I can’t keep it, and I can’t give it back.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well,” Steve said. “First thing, let’s find out where it came from. Tell you what. Call the Taylor Detective Agency and see if you can get Mark Taylor on the phone for me.”

  “Right away,” Tracy said. She turned and headed for the outer office.

  “Hey, where you going?” Steve said.

  She turned back in the doorway. “To look up the number on the Rolodex.”

  After the hard time Tracy had been giving him, Steve couldn’t resist the shot. “Della Street never had to look up Paul Drake’s number,” he said.

  Tracy made a face. “Hey, fuck you,” she said.”

  “She never said that either.”

  3

  Tracy ushered Mark Taylor into the inner office.

  “Hi, Mark,” Steve said. “Come in. Sit down. This is my secretary, Tracy Garvin. Mark Taylor.”

  Mark Taylor cast an appreciative eye over her. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Don’t get too attached to her,” Steve said. “She just gave two weeks’ notice.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Taylor said to Tracy. “The guy’s a slave driver. He’
s been overworking you, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. “She can’t stand the pace.”

  Taylor nodded, and slumped his bulk in the overstuffed clients’ chair. Mark Taylor was Steve Winslow’s age; in fact, they’d been roommates in college. But while Steve was tall and thin, Taylor was all beef. At six feet, 220 pounds, he had had professional football aspirations, before an injury cut short his career.

  “So what’s up?” Taylor said.

  “I want you to locate a client.”

  “You have a client?”

  “I will if you find him.”

  “Skipped out?”

  “No.”

  “Police?”

  Steve frowned. “No, but it’s an idea.”

  “So who’s the client?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Taylor looked at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You don’t know your own client?”

  “No.”

  Taylor ran his fingers through his curly red hair. “Now wait a minute. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You want me to find a client for you, but you can’t tell me who the client is?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Could you give me a hint?”

  Steve grinned and passed the envelope with the money over to him.

  “What do you make of this?” Steve said.

  Taylor opened the envelope and pulled out the thousand dollar bills. He riffled through them and whistled.

  “Well?” Steve said.

  “Well,” Taylor said. “This seems to be ten thousand smackers of genuine U.S. currency. The bills are old and are not in sequence.”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. He handed him the note. “And what do you make of this?”

  Taylor read it and looked it over.

  “Well, this is your basic anonymous letter. It appears to have been written on a non-electric typewriter, with elite type. The r is slightly out of alignment.”

  “Not bad. I don’t suppose you could tell me the make?”

  “No, but I got an expert who could, if you want to pay the freight.”

  “O.K., send it along,” Steve said. “And then start tracing the numbers on those bills. Cover all the banks. Today’s Tuesday, so the withdrawal was probably made yesterday.”