The father shook his head, firmly. “No drugs, certainly. He is something of a health enthusiast. Played rugby at Harvard. Lots of raw vegetables in his diet, very limited intake of red meat. Vitamins. Works out at home in our exercise room. Doesn’t smoke. Very little drinking.”
“What’s he normally like? His personality, I mean. His temperament.”
“In work my son walks a line between being conservative and, as I said, reckless—I’d generally call him moderate, but he will take a risk, if he feels it’s called for. He has always been a deliberate boy. Maintains control. Which is why it’s so terribly disturbing to see him fly off the handle, and go into such an erratic, violent tailspin.”
“What exactly do you expect of me?”
“Find the person driving that red sports car.”
“And what?”
He held up two hands, palms out, as if in surrender. “I’ll leave that to your discretion. If this was truly an accident, turn the individual over to the police. If it does turn out to be someone striking out at Vincent, personally—if that incident was a murder attempt, not an accident…or if the man turns out to have been a drunk driver…use your own judgment.”
I leaned forward. I spoke very quietly.
“Vance, I want no misunderstanding here. Despite my reputation, you’re hiring an investigator, not a vigilante.” I gestured around me. “Even with all this, you don’t have enough money to hire me to kill someone, or even knock them around. I’m not a hired killer. Not a thug. No matter what some people believe.”
“What if someone were to pull a gun on you?”
“I’d shoot them, of course.”
He smiled. “That’s good enough for me, Mike.”
CHAPTER FOUR
You can drink till four a.m. in Manhattan, but some restaurants with bars set their own time for last call. Pete’s Chophouse was one of those, which was where Velda and I headed for a late-night supper after taking in Ain’t Misbehavin’ at the Ambassador Theatre. There were plenty of places closer to grab a bite and a brew, but as usual I had a hidden agenda.
After a warm greeting from Pete in his shiny tux and suspiciously black hair and mustache, I deposited my coat and hat with the check-stand blonde. The lovely Sheila, in another green gown, nicely low-cut tonight, complimented Velda on her oversized black blazer and white turtleneck, then acceded to my request for seating in the bar area. The green-eyed redhead escorted us there with a smile and not a word about my last visit to the restaurant or to our previous, ultimately tense encounter at Bellevue. She still had an eye swollen up but camouflaged with cosmetics.
On a weeknight, at around a quarter till eleven, the old-fashioned, less-than-spacious supper club was sparsely populated, the not-too-smoky ambience going well with the low lighting.
Velda had a small chef’s salad and I put away a rare steak sandwich and fries, and a couple of Miller Lites. We took our time, and in low tones discussed the Colby job, and a job is what it was now that we had deposited the old man’s check for ten grand. We kept our voices low while Sinatra, Dino, and Davis sang to us from the sound system.