“What about ’em?” Bobby said. “High-end, personally tailored, no labels. The shoes were high-end custom with some sort of embossed logo. Can’t quite make it out but I’ll take a deeper dive. Don’t hold me to this, August, but I think you may have the right circus—”

“But the wrong clown.”

While I let Bobby’s download find various crevasses of my mind in which to settle, he said, “Since I’ve got you on the horn, tell me this: Is Leo Cowling really that much of a magna pilosis asshole or what?”

17

17

Looking like a million bucks doesn’t really account for much when you’re approaching the receptionist desk of Hunter Enterprises headquarters on the fourteenth floor of the Guardian Building; everybody looks like a million bucks on this floor.

Nevertheless, I was dressed to kill in a black two-button Altea cashmere topcoat, Tom Ford grey Prince of Wales Shelton suit, Proper Cloth 120s grey small check shirt, serious black silk tie and Ferragamo double-buckle shoes. Seated behind the blond-mahogany desk was a young man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.

“Well, hello-ke-dokey!” I said, flashing the thousand-watt grin of a Mormon missionary.

“Hi,” the receptionist said, gleefully exposing at least ten grand in cosmetic dentistry. “Welcome to Hunter Enterprises. How may I assist you, sir?”

If you ever need a new alias for what my cop father used to call the “Rockford Flyover,” it’s likely your local restaurant is unwittingly able to help; there’s a fishbowl near the cash register with thirty or forty business cards swimming in it, each one hoping to be hooked so its owner can win a free lunch. For a great number of people, a business card is sufficient proof of identity.

The free-lunch business card fishbowl at Schmear’s Deli had provided me with a new temporary persona. “Elwood,” I said, handing the receptionist a business card. “Elwood Singer. Friends call me Woody. Or Lockjaw. Purple Elite Pool Systems, Keego Harbor. Got a twelve-thirty-five appointment to see the big man himself, Mr. Vic Bronson.”

“Mr.—”

“Singer,” I said. “With an S. Capital S.”

“Yes, I think I can spell ‘Singer,’ Mr. Singer,” he said, typing my name into his computer. “With a capital S.”

“Purple Elite Pool Systems, Keego Harbor,” I repeated. “Institutional pools. Competitive pools. Medical therapeutic pools. High-end residential pools. You got a pool? You really should have a pool. Everybody should have a pool. It’s the number-one full-body cardio workout, bar none. I mean, it looks like you swim, ’cause, I mean, everything’s—you know—in the right place.”

I watched his movie marquee blue eyes dance over his monitor for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Singer,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not finding you on Mr. Bronson’s schedule.”