A Long Walk Up the Waterslide Read Online Free PDF

flesh, the—
    “Full frontal, if possible,” Ms. Haber chimed in.
    “Why don’t I locate the entire Ms. Paget?” Withers asked, “and let you take it from there?”
    “That’s funny, Walt. I like that,” Scarpelli said, not laughing. Then he asked, “But what makes you think you can find her? Why should I hire you when I can buy the best private investigators in the world? Which—no offense—by the look of you, you ain’t.”
    This is true, Withers thought. Needlessly offensive, but true. My suit is shiny and my eyes aren’t, I have those little broken blood vessels in my nose, and my tie is old. But it’s a tie, not a gold chain, you jumped-up little porno prince, and I bought it at Saks.
    “I’m a genuine private investigator, Mr. Scarpelli,” Withers answered. “I have a license, a gun, vast experience, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi. Now, certainly you can engage one of the big agencies. They have a lot of personnel and most of them look better than I do. But none of them know where Polly Paget is.
    “And you do,” Scarpelli said.
    Actually, I don’t. But I know someone who does.
    Withers set his water down on the glass-topped table and stood up.
    “Thank you for your time and the water,” he said. “I’ll take my offer elsewhere. I think Ms. Paget would be quite charming in bunny ears.”
    Speaking of speaking in an authoritative voice.
    “Wait,” Scarpelli said quickly. “Sit down, please.”
    “Please,” Ms. Haber echoed.
    Withers sat down. He pulled his old Dunhill cigarette case from his jacket pocket. Ms. Haber quickly produced a lighter and an ashtray.
    “I’ll pay her half a million dollars,” Scarpelli said.
    Withers held out the case. Scarpelli shook his head and Ms. Haber leaned forward to light his cigarette.
    “I will require a ten percent finder’s fee,” Withers said. “Plus expenses.”
    “Where is she?” Scarpelli asked.
    As if I would tell you, Withers thought. As if I knew.
    “And I will need some up-front cash for her,” Withers continued, ignoring the question.
    “I’ll give you a cashier’s check.”
    Withers shook his head.
    “No?” Scarpelli asked.
    “No,” Withers answered. “Women like Ms. Paget are childlike. They lack the patience for delayed gratification. They understand cash.”
    As does Sammy Black. The last time I tried to give him a check, he made me eat it and tell him what rubber tasted like.
    “Let me get this straight,” Scarpelli said. “You want me to give you a bundle of cash to carry around in case you find Polly Paget? Is that it?”
    “That’s it. Fifty thousand would probably get her attention.”
    Maybe thirty would, too. Minus the vig.
    “Fifty thousand dollars in cash,” Scarpelli said. “What do I look like to you?”
    Here it is, Withers thought. The job on the line, right here.
    “A good businessman, Mr. Scarpelli,” he said.
    Scarpelli smiled. Ms. Haber smiled. Withers smiled.
    Scarpelli got up from behind his big glass top desk and opened the door to a walk-in closet that had about fifty suits hanging in it, twenty or thirty pairs of shoes—treed and on racks, and a few dozen shirts on wire-rack shelves. He pushed aside a gray silk double-breasted, flipped open a panel on the wall, and dialed the combination. A minute later, he came out with five packets of cash, which he tossed on Withers’s lap.
    “Call me Ron,” Scarpelli said.
    Call me a cab, Withers thought.
    “Where is she?” Peter Hathaway asked with the air of a man about to be let in on a wonderful practical joke.
    Ed Levine turned to Ethan Kitteredge, who almost imperceptibly shook his head.
    “Do you really need to know?” Ed asked Hathaway.
    Peter Hathaway kept the smile on his face but it tightened up a little. Peter Hathaway was used to getting answers, and they were usually the answers he wanted. That was one of the reasons he owned a significant portion of a television network at the age of thirty-seven. One of the other reasons