Dead Man by Joe Gores Read Free Book Online Page B

of him as Eddie any more. He spread his hands in deprecation.
    “Even if everything you say is true, why do you think I’m the man for this sort of thing?”
    “You were born for it. Everybody knows you, you know everybody, you love to gossip, you love intrigue. And I can trust your
     judgment. Maybe I even can trust you.”
    “I’m flattered by your confidence,” said Sherman coldly.
    Dain ignored his pique. “If a recovery of some sort is involved—skim money, stolen narcotics, whatever—my fee will be ten
     percent of recovery against a twenty-five K floor. That’s sixty-two hundred fifty minimum per case for you—tax-free.”
    “Do you really think you can…” Sherman paused. He rubbed his eyes. He fidgeted. The offer was actually intriguing, not for
     the money, but… but he didn’t want to show he was interested. “The thing is…”
    He fell silent in midsentence. He knew he was going to do it. Dain was righC it was the sort of offbeat situation he couldn’t
     resist. To
know
all the dangers beforehand… to ride the tiger… Yes! Absolutely delicious…
    “Well… against my better judgment…”
    Dain didn’t do any cartwheels. There was that cold center Sherman hadn’t adjusted to yet. He merely picked up his book from
     the desk and stood up. Standing, he drained his cup.
    “Wonderful coffee,” he said.
    “Another cup—”
    He shook his head. His eyes sought the tall grandfather clock in a shadowy corner of the room. Something flickered momentarily
     in those eyes, then was gone. Some feeling that might have been described as deep purple had it been a color.
    “I’m due at Homicide in fifteen minutes,” he said.
    Sherman was on his feet also.
“Deja
vu.”
    Dain nodded. He stuck out his hand. Sherman took it. He was delighted with the way he had handled himself. He loved the image
     of himself at the edge of the precipice. He gestured at the chessboard.
    “Did you notice this endgame problem? The thirteenth game of Fischer versus Spassky World Championship match at Reykjavik,
     nineteen seventy-two? Extraordinary encounter.” He moved eagerly to the nine pieces left on the board. “Look here—”
    Something flashed in Dain’s eyes that drove Sherman back an involuntary step as if the tiger had suddenlycrouched to spring. But Dain spoke in flat, almost disinterested tones.
    “I don’t play chess any more,” he said mildly.
    Sherman was silent, measuring him for a long moment, pushing it, relishing it. Riding the tiger! He nodded slightly.
    “Of course,” he said. “A pity.”
    So it had worked with Sherman, the tough-guy image behind which Eddie Dain could live and function. He felt uneasy to be using
     his friends this way; but the gamesman part of him was excited by his initial success. Sherman’s lively imagination had done
     a lot of Dain’s work for him, but Randy Solomon would be different. To enlist Randy’s cooperation for information only the
     cops could provide, he had to project the same stainless-steel image using very different tactics.
    Homicide had a new percolator. It made good coffee, so the trade from out-of-town departments had slacked off. And sure enough,
     according to the load of bullshit Lieutenant Randy Solomon was trying to sell a trio of Homicide dicks when Dain walked in,
     out in the boonies the bullets and switchblades now were finding their mark with disconcerting regularity.
    Four sets of indifferent cops’ eyes swept over Dain, making professional assessment without interest since no threat was perceived.
     Three sets turned away. One set remained fixed on him. Staring hard. Harder. Suddenly Solomon broke away from the water cooler
     gang and went across the bullpen toward him.
    “Jesus Christ! Eddie Dain! Where in the hell…”
    Like Sherman, he moved to embrace Dain. Unlike Sherman, he was attuned to physical rather than intellectual threat signs in
     people and so managed to turn the bear hug into a handshake without embarrassment on