“Schroeder Private Investigations, how may I help you,” the receptionist said.
“Greg Schroeder, please,” I said.
“Mr. Schroeder is unavailable at the moment. May I connect you with—”
“Tell him it’s McKenzie.”
“Oh, Mr. McKenzie. Just a moment, please.”
Greg Schroeder never answered his own phone, and he rarely took calls he wasn’t expecting, which was odd when you considered his line of work. Yet he always had time for me. The reason was simple. Most private investigations these days involve the use of computers, something old-school, trench-coat detectives like Schroeder disdain. I, on the other hand, have offered him work over the years that not only got him out of the office; it put guns in his hands.
“McKenzie,” he said after the receptionist patched me through. “We were just talking about you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah, me and some of the boys hanging around the ol’ watercooler. Rumor has it you were jacked by a couple of cowboys and you didn’t shoot either one of them. What’s with that?”
“The boys” was what he called his operatives, men and women alike, most of them ex-cops, deputies, Feds, and at least one MP. The number he employed at any one time was determined by the amount of business he had, and lately business had been very good. The economy wasn’t what it could be, and that made everyone from housewives to corporate executives nervous. The more nervous they got, the better for guys like Schroeder.
“What can I say, Greg? I’ve become more conventional as I age.”
“Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. What do you need?”
“I need a favor.”
“Favor? Is that a word?”
“I meant I need you to do a job for which I expect to pay your normal rate.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“I want you to find a man named Nicholas Hendel.”
“Okay.”
“He has a credit card.”
“Okay.”
I told Schroeder the name of the credit card company.
“Okay,” he said.
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“That’s all I have.”
“C’mon.”
“No, wait. He might be from Chicago.”
“McKenzie—”
“How long do you think it’ll take to get a line on him?”
“This is just some damn paper chase. Ah, McKenzie. I expected more from you.”
“You know, Greg, not every job can be a running gun battle.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s been so long.”
“What do you mean? I let you stick a gun in a guy’s ear just last May.”
“Oh, gee, what fun.”
“I promise, the next shooting I come across, I’ll give you a call. In the meantime—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll pass this off to the geeks, but it occurs to me, to get what you ask we might have to do some hacking. Might have to run a flimflam on the credit card company.”
“Flimflam? Is that the new computer slang?”
“I don’t know from fucking computer slang. I’m just saying it’s illegal. It’s dangerous.”
“Your point is?”
“It’s gonna cost you more than the normal rate.”
“Fair enough.”
“This Nicholas Hendel, is he one of the cowboys that snatched you? Cuz if he is, we have a rate for that, too, if you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant. I also knew the rate—five thousand dollars. In cash.
“Call me when you have something,” I said.
After dining, I went to my room. There was nothing on TV that interested me, so I turned to the clock radio provided by the hotel. The Minnesota Twins were on the West Coast, and I was hoping to pick up the game. I found a station that was part of the Twins network—KGFX, an AM station out of Pierre that called itself South Dakota’s Pioneer Radio Station. Only the signal kept fading in and out. I thought I’d have better luck in my Audi, but the reception on First Street was just as iffy.
The buildings on the west side of the street cast shadows that touched the buildings on the east side. The sky was glaring yellow, and then—boom—as the sun set it became royal blue turning to purple, and stars appeared on the eastern horizon. It became perceptibly cooler, and I was glad I was wearing my sports jacket. Radio reception improved, and while I still couldn’t dial in Pierre, the signal from the ESPN affiliate out of Bismarck, North Dakota—KXMR-AM—was steady and clear. I sat with my windows down, listening to the pregame show, John Gordon talking up the Twins’ young pitching staff, while the town came alive around me.
