A Fistful of Collars Read Online Free PDF

a premium to protect yourself from loss,” Rick said.
    “For Christ sake, I know what insurance is.” Wow! But of course he would: that was Bernie. “I’m asking what insurance has to do with this movie thing.”
    “What do you care? It’s a paying gig.”
    Yes! So nice to hear that again.
    “. . . name of the insurance company?” Bernie was saying.
    Rick shrugged. “I assume it’s whoever Valley government uses for everything.” He took out a little screen device, tapped at it. “The Stephan K. Gronkovich Insurance Group,” Rick said.
    Bernie went still for a moment, then nodded.
    “What’s up?” Rick said, ripping open a little packet and sprinkling sugar in his coffee; then he opened another packet and did it again.
    “Nothing,” Bernie said. “And that’s refined sugar.”
    “Want me to mash my own cane?” said Rick. He stuck his finger in the cup and swirled it around. “You’re taking the job?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You could do me a favor.”
    “What?”
    “Marcie’s a big fan,” Rick said. “She’d love an autograph.”
    “From the mayor?” said Bernie.
    We were turning onto Mesquite Road when Bernie’s phone rang. He picked up and a voice came through the speakers.
    “Hi, Bernie. Stine here.”
    That would be Lieutenant Stine, another cop pal of ours, although maybe you couldn’t call him a pal like Rick. With pals like Rick, you don’t feel Bernie watching everything like a hawk; with pals like Lieutenant Stine, you do.
    “Congratulations on landing this new job.” Lieutenant Stinehad a harsh, hoarse sort of voice, like he partied every night, but when you saw his face, you knew he wasn’t the type.
    “What new job?” Bernie said.
    A pause, and then Stine said, “For the mayor’s office.”
    “No such thing as secrets anymore?” Bernie said.
    Stine laughed. “There are plenty. The Valley’s like an iceberg, nine-tenths hidden, which I’m sure you know by now.” He paused. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Call me on my direct line anytime.”
    “Sure.”
    “Do you have the number?”
    “Must have misplaced it.”
    Another pause. “Got a pencil?”
    “Yup,” said Bernie, although he did not.
    Maybe he was thinking about icebergs. I sure was. Had Lieutenant Stine forgotten how hot we had it in the Valley? Ice melts here just like that. Supposing an ice cube falls on the patio: by the time you get there to lick it up, it’s turned to water. And the water isn’t even cold.
    I don’t like elevators, not one little bit, but Bernie promised me a treat. We rode an elevator up to the very top of one of the tallest of the downtown towers, just the two of us, which made it better. There were a lot of rapid panting sounds in the elevator. Then at last the doors opened and I burst—
    “Ch—et?”
    And we stepped outside.
    “Here you go,” he said, and then came treats, small ones but a whole handful. I made quick work of them. We were on the job.
    We went down a long hall, the floor covered with a soft, thickrug, offices on both sides, people hard at work, the kind of human work that involves sitting in front of a screen for a long time. I thought we were headed for a raised, glassed-in office at the end of the hall, but as we passed a conference room with a bunch of people around a long table, a big guy at one end saw us, and jumped up, saying, “Son of a bitch!” Then he ran toward us, grabbed Bernie and hugged him tight. They pounded each other’s backs real hard while everyone around the table watched with their mouths wide open.
    “Bernie!”
    “Gronk!”
    Gronk—maybe not as tall as Bernie but a lot broader—turned to the people in the room. “Here’s your chance to fix the shit you’ve been feeding me,” he said. “Five minutes, everybody.”
    Then he took Bernie by the arm and marched him down the hall, up the stairs, and into the glassed-in office. Whatever had been going on in the conference room—it sounded pretty