Lemons Never Lie

The wrestler in the turtleneck shirt patted Grofield all over, while Grofield stood with legs slightly apart and arms ex­tended straight out at his sides, like an illustration in an ex­ercise book. The wrestler had bad breath. Grofield didn’t suggest anything to him, and after a minute the frisk was done and the wrestler said, "Okay, you’re clean."

"Naturally," Grofield said. "I came here to talk."

...

The wrestler made no response. He’d been hired as a door­man, and that was it. "They’re in the other room," he said.

Grofield went on into the other room, feeling pessimistic. First the three lemons at the airport, and now this. Myers, the organizer of this thing and a man Grofield didn’t know, had set himself up in a two-room suite in the tower section of one of the Strip hotels. Why would a man spend so much money on a meeting place? Why meet in Las Vegas in the first place? It hinted of a blowhard somewhere in the tapestry.

Grofield hoped not. He wasn’t going to permit his need to interfere with his common sense and his professional judg­ment, but the fact was, his need was great. Mary was back home in Indiana, sleeping on the stage. This trip was taking most of Grofield’s available capital, after a season of summer stock that any conglomerate would have been happy to have for their tax loss. If Myers turned out not to have anything, there were going to be some lean winter days until something did appear.

...

From Lemons Never Lie by Richard Stark

OCTPFAS

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