Dead Man by Joe Gores Read Free Book Online Page A

beneath his smooth hide like the muscles
     of a tiger. “Physical therapy. You carry a heavy book around all day, it strengthens your hands and forearms.” He chuckled.
     “So you’ll be ready.”
    Sherman had recovered. “Ready.” He nodded as if heunderstood what it meant, added, “Of course. Ah… and so, these past four years… where have you… ?”
    Dain put his leather-bound book down on the edge of the desk and sat down in the same chair he had habitually sat in four
     years earlier, but there was no unconscious lotus pose this time. He still looked flexible enough to do one, but now he was
     solid, hard. Prepared. Power seemed to come off him like heat.
    But he only said, conventionally, “Hospitals, mostly.”
    The water was heating. Sherman sat down behind the desk which had, as always, the inlaid chessboard with a classic problem
     laid out on it. For the first time, Sherman’s sad, beautiful eyes studied Dain quite openly.
    “And?”
    “And nothing.” Dain almost shrugged. His smile was very slightly lopsided from the tiny white plastic surgery scars on one
     side of his face. “Lots of operations, lots of pain, lots of physical therapy. All of which cost a great deal of money.”
    Money. Familiar ground here. Doug Sherman knew all about using money to control situations. And he wanted to control this
     one. This Edgar Dain made him feel defensive, uneasy, perhaps a little frightened. Talking to him was like stroking a tiger.
    “I can imagine. If there’s anything I can…”
    “There is.”
    A statement so bald startled the aesthete in Sherman. He felt almost embarrassed for Dain; such a blatant pitch for charity
     diminished the man’s power. The kettle started to sing. He poured boiling water to the top of the paper cone.
    “Listen, Dain, I don’t have a great deal put by, but…”
    “Not money.” Dain stood up, started to pace. It was the impatient padding of a tiger about its cell. “Business.”
    Intriguing. “I’m in the book business.” He suddenly thought he knew where this was going. Needed money, too proud to ask.
     He gestured toward the book. “That would be worth a good deal of money… and it must be painful psychologically to…”
    “It’s not for sale.”
    Sherman sighed, nonplussed. “A pity. But then, what…?”
    “I’m going back into private investigations.” Dain paused, staring at a new painting in one of the alcoves. A Magritte original,
     he was sure. He shivered slightly, picked up his thread again. “For… unconventional clients. I know of no other way to make
     the kind of money I need relatively quickly.” He looked over at Sherman. “I need a front man. A go-between.”
    “I don’t think I understand.”
    “Sure you do. I want heavy-money clients on the shady side who will pay a lot to find someone they need found without questions
     asked. I don’t want anyone else as clients. So I need a cutout, a go-between to screen out the unwanted.”
    “But how can you… I mean, four years ago you were…”
    “Naive? Inexperienced?”
    “Bluntly… yes.” He poured coffee into two exquisite Meissen china cups, set out cream and sugar in solid silver bowls. “Why
     would anyone in that… underbelly sector of the… um, American experience, say, want to hire you?”
    “You’re right. I was a fool. I wasn’t ready. But that won’t happen again.” Dain had stopped pacing. His face, voice, eyes,
     had lost their impassivity; there was an almost guttural intensity to his words. “Now I know how to create the sort of reputation
     I want. Trust me on that. With a screen, a filter, I can say no easily. That’s all I need from you.”
    He sat down with that looseness of muscle that typifies all big predators off duty. Both men sipped their coffee. They exchanged
     pleased looks over its quality.
    Four years ago Sherman would have laughed in his face if Eddie Dain had come to him with such a proposition. But not now.
     Now he couldn’t even think