Fiddle Game by Richard A. Thompson Read Free Book Online

bitch,” I said.
    “Which one?” said the Proph.
    “That’s the name of the guy I wrote the bond for.”
    “I take it, you don’t believe in coincidence,” said Wilkie.
    “Do you?”
    “Never,” said Wilkie.
    “Always,” said the Proph.
    “There’s more,” said Wilkie. “The little guy was carrying, a great big nine-millie Browning High Power, looks like it weighs more than he does. Only it’s a phony.”
    “It’s not a real Browning?”
    “Hell, it’s not even a real gun. All plastic, shoots gumball pellets or some damn thing. His badge is also phony, but it’s an awfully good one. A casting, probably. An exact replica of the one the big guy had.”
    “I don’t think I like where this is going,” I said.
    “You’re right. You don’t like it at all. As far as I can tell, your other guy, Evans, is a real cop. Real badge, real gun, and probably real mad when he wakes up.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    “That’s about it, all right.”
    ***
    “How’s your workload these days, Wide?”
    “You owe me two hundred.”
    “How’s that, exactly?”
    “That’s what I figure the Korean kid was good for, if I hadn’t had to leave the nine ball game early.”
    Wilkie was a lot better pool player when he was figuring than when he was shooting, but I let it pass. Two hundred for an impromptu deliverance was a good deal, any day. We were sitting in the Chevy, me and Wilkie in the back seat and the Proph behind the wheel, pretending he was Yah’s road warrior, making motor noises in his throat. Nobody seemed to know what to do next. Is it the Navy, where they teach people, “Do something, even if it’s wrong?” One of those fanatical outfits, anyway. I was starting to feel that way. Somebody had sucked me into a game without telling me the rules, and it was pissing me off. I wanted to be the shooter, for a change, even if I couldn’t see the Zen line.
    “I’ll tell Agnes to cut you a check,” I said.
    “I like the other stuff better, if it’s all the same to you. The green stuff that the government doesn’t know about.”
    “No problem,” I said. “You need it right away? If so, I’ve got to go run an errand.”
    “Tomorrow’s good enough. Leave it with Agnes, if you’re not around.”
    “Fair enough. Besides that, do you need a job?”
    “Like checking up on a real cop who travels with a phony one?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “You’ve worked for me plenty of times before.”
    “Yeah, but only bounty hunting. Any fool can do that. But to do investigating, you need a PI license. A carry permit is nice to have, too. You get caught with an unregistered gun when you’re chasing a bail-jumping scumbag, they might not even take it away from you. But you get caught carrying heat while you’re investigating somebody, you’re in deep shit, dig?”
    “For somebody who just stuffed a cop in a trunk, you’re awfully scrupulous, all of a sudden.”
    “Hey, you’re the one who kicked him. Anyway, I’ve been officially warned, okay?”
    “Ah. But only warned about doing PI work?”
    “That’s it.”
    “I’m hip.”
    “Vroooom,” said the Proph.
    “Shut up,” said Wilkie.
    “So, how’s your workload?” I said.
    “I could use some.”
    “I’ve got some for you. You don’t know anything about the fiddle or the phony-cop-real-cop affair, okay?”
    “What affair is that?”
    “Exactly. This is a bounty hunting job.”
    “That’s what I do, all right. Who am I hunting?”
    “Amy Cox.”
    “Not her brother?”
    “We seem to be able to find him, easily enough. Whether we want to or not.”
    “Her, too. Isn’t she in the morgue?”
    “You don’t know that, and you’re going to forget to look there. Assume that’s somebody else. I want the real Amy Cox. Find her and bring her in, and I’ll give you five thousand.”
    “And if she can’t be found?”
    “Then give me some progress reports, and I’ll give you a partial payment.”
    “What kind of progress