Dead Seed by William Campbell Gault Read Free Book Online

hair?” I asked.
    “Right. You know her?”
    “I met her. If I were your age and single, I’d still be up there. Be careful, though. That goon at the gate could be dangerous.”
    “I’ll be careful. What I was wondering—would the five bucks an hour extra still hold with you if I’m up there?”
    “Well—” I said doubtfully.
    “Four bucks?” he suggested.
    “I don’t know—”
    “Make it two dollars an hour and we’ve got a deal,” he said.
    “Okay. Only because I want to keep a comer like you in the profession. Now, damn it, be careful!”
    “Of course. Stop fretting! I’m no kid.”
    Of course he wasn’t. He was a seasoned investigator with his own telephone in the garage office of his parents’ home. Why was I such a worry wart? If he landed a job there he would be getting pay from three sources. That was a lot better than I had done at his age.
    The Levon Apoyan I had miscalled my chauffeur when I was conning Sarkissian was the man who had told me about Armenians. He had been a teammate of mine at Stanford, a second-string quarterback. His name was Levon, but we all called him Lee. He now ran a carpet and Oriental rug store in Van Nuys. I phoned him there and asked if he knew Vartan Sarkissian.
    “I know of two people by that name, but not personally. Do you mean the one who is running the cult up in your town?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “I know him only by reputation.”
    “Which is?”
    “Shady and slick. He’s run a lot of scams but never been convicted. He’ll break his father’s heart one of these days.”
    “You know his father?”
    “I do. He’s a minister in the Armenian Apostolic church. Is it true what I heard, that you hit it big?”
    “I guess you could say I’m solvent.”
    “Well, I’ve got this twelve-by-eighteen Kerman, old buddy, an antique Kerman that I can let you have for a lousy—”
    “Stop it, Lee. I really am your buddy. This is old Brock.”
    “I forgot. Chintzy Callahan. How’s it going?”
    “Fair enough. Next time you’re up here selling some rich Montevista widow, give me a call. We’ll play some golf.”
    “On you?”
    “On me. Golf, booze, dinner, the whole bit on me.”
    “Maybe you’re not so chintzy any more. I get a stroke a side, same as before? Maybe a hundred-dollar Nassau?”
    “Maybe a five-dollar Nassau, with two presses. I’m still a little chintzy.”
    When I hung up, Jan asked me, “Was that Lee Apoyan you were talking with?”
    I nodded.
    “You should have told me you were going to phone him. I have a client who’s been looking all over town for an antique Kerman. Maybe Lee has one.”
    “He’s got one,” I told her. “He tried to sell it to me. Here’s the phone number of his store.” I handed her the slip I’d made.
    I can relate only Jan’s end of the dialogue. It went like this: “Brock told me you have an antique Kerman. What size?” A pause. “Oh, I was hoping it was a twelve-by-fifteen.” Pause. “No, no. The room is large enough, but she has this Kashan runner she wants to put at one end.” Pause. “I know that’s dumb. She’s dumb.” Pause. “That’s right, dumb but rich. What color is it?” Pause. “Oh, that would be perfect for the room. Damn it!” Pause. “No, I’m not going to give you her name. She’s my customer, Lee.” Pause. “All right. You phone me before you come up, and I’ll arrange for us to see her together.”
    Jan hung up and looked at me. “What are you smirking about?”
    “I was wondering if that woman really planned to put a runner at the end of her Kerman.”
    Jan said haughtily, “She suggested it once. I promised not to complain about your business. I would appreciate it if you would stay out of mine.”
    I had a feeling that if Jan had been at Stanford with us, and male, second-string quarterback Lee Apoyan would have been demoted to third-string. And then the sobering thought came to me that Jan had matched wits with a peer, while I had taken advantage of