Strawman Made Steel Read Online Free PDF

closed the diary.
    “Before, you said ‘security’,” I said.
“What kind of security are we talking about?”
    “Line checks. Anti-tampering.” He smiled
again. “The information flowing in the fibers our clients buy is money, and
illegal tapping is booming.”
    That sounded to me like paying Sisyphus by
the hour for boulder-rolling.
    At that moment the office door swung open a
foot and a head poked round its edge.
    The head said, “Kramer can’t find the Roxon
file.”
    Weatherall strode from the room, saying
over his shoulder, “Please don’t touch anything.”
    When he left I opened the diary and flipped
it over to Sunday. The afternoon was blocked out with the text: MOTHERS. Below
that was a naked asterisk. I shut it again and cast my gaze over the office.
    Other than the bureau there were few
personal touches. A bathroom and wardrobe opened off one side. I rummaged in my
coat pocket for a rubber ball, and then entered the bathroom.
    The cleaner had already been over it. A
spotless toilet set stood on the vanity and, in taste, matched the guy I had frisked
in the dumpster. The wardrobe overflowed with suits transitioning to spring, a
number swathed in dry-cleaner’s plastic. At the far end hung a lady’s cocktail
dress, a size six at a guess. The kitten pumps beneath were size seven.
    “Excuse me.” It was Weatherall.
    I showed him my rubber ball. “Still getting
the hang,” I said, and bounced it off the carpet.
    For the second time that morning I was escorted
from a place by a suspicious brow.
    On my way out I stopped by the desk. The
lady behind it didn’t seem to have moved.
    “Did Eury drink?” I said. “Get into a lot
of fights?”
    She reacted as if I’d slapped her. She
flushed clear through her foundation, and her eyes glanced anywhere but at me.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    A tear ran over her cheek. She wiped it
with a finger and smeared her mascara. I offered her a clean handkerchief,
which she took and dabbed on her eye.
    “Did you go to this party with him
yesterday?”
    She shook her head. I fancied I saw a
thousand speculations flit ―why not?― through her eyes. Pity the one soul
who could answer them had left the planet. Torture.
    “How about before that. You see him
yesterday morning?”
    She nodded.
    “Happy?”
    She smiled despite the tears. “How could he
not be? Didn’t they tell you? That was what the celebration was for,” she said.
“He was receiving his―”
    “Majority?” I said.
    “Freedom. Full access to his inheritance,
which till then had been locked in trust.”
    From rich, to rich and unencumbered.
    She dabbed one last tear away and returned
my handkerchief. She attempted to replace her mask.
    “As for drink,” she said. “He never drank
in front of me. Ever. Or fought.” She hesitated. “One time only, he came here
with a black eye.”
    “When was that?” I said.
    “I don’t know. A month ago? Two?”
    I thanked her and re-joined my Russian
friend in the elevator. On the way down, I grappled with the concept of a rich
kid who worked, didn’t drink, and didn’t fight. It disturbed my equilibrium.
     
    From there I took a cab to Tunney’s
police station―command post of Manhattan’s Third Ward, with oversight of five
of the island’s precincts. It was a hive of fat, tired, blue bees.
    That’s unfair. Inker’s whiskey hadn’t
dented my headache, and it took me half an hour to track down Tunney. At that
moment he could have been the queen bee. It took another five minutes of me
staring at him through the press to get some time alone. I knew he’d been
leaned on to keep me in the loop. He knew I knew it.
    He plowed his way into his office, and I
guess trusted me to get sucked in by his slipstream. He started speaking before
he’d turned around.
    “Alright smart-ass. The dumpster travelled
halfway across town.”
    I leaned against the door, hands deep in my
pockets, and let him blow himself out.
    “But nobody saw it. Amazing, huh? City