The Subtle Art of Brutality

“My wife keeps saying that. Friend of a friend of a friend of a former client. He needs you to look up his daughter.”

“Great. Another father-daughter case. Is he legit?”

“Sure he is. Why not?”

I installed a light outside my office door for one reason: security. There is a panel of frosted glass in my door, shoulder height. The light limns anyone who shows up knocking, and the glass frames their heads in case I answer the door with a gunshot.

It’s been known to happen.

A man’s silhouette appears from the murky grayness of the textured glass and I say to Abe: “I’ll call you back.”

Abe says something about having me over for dinner, and before I can tell him I won’t eat the slop his English-immigrant wife cooks, my doorknob turns.

The man walks in unannounced. That will get you killed around here. He looks distinguished by way of his IQ or academic accomplishments. He is rather unremarkable, but the snooty air about him immediately puts a bad taste in my mouth. I do not like being around people who think they are better than me. I do not like it at all, Sam I am.

Under the desk, my revolver comes out and aims in his direction. If he knows he’s covered by a large bore revolver he doesn’t act like it. My eyes go to his hands. Without patience: “You knock first.”

“I do apologize, sir.”

“Don’t apologize.” I say. “Knock.”

“Mr. Buckner, may I call you Richard?” He says, smoothing the front of his suit jacket.

I say nothing. After an uncomfortable minute he takes the hint, nods like a spoiled child and walks back out my door. He stands there for a second, clearly not used to bending to someone else’s will. Knocks. Hard.

“Come in.” I say, pleasantly enough. I do not re-holster my iron.

Irritated: “Mr. Buckner, how are you?”

“Oh, just fine. What were you saying?”

“Well, I—” He stares at my swans and sail boat. “Your origami are...unique.”

“The good ones are at home.”

“Your mother must be very proud of you.”

“Even if she were alive I wouldn’t give a shit.”

“Hmmm. Well, anyways.” He looks around. Smoothes his jacket again. “Is it Mr. Buckner or Richard?”

“Depends on who’s addressing me.”

“A paying client?”

“Well, anything but Dick. Do not call me Dick.”

“Understood. I am Dr. Windslow, and I need you to find a certain young lady for me.”

“Your daughter?”

An uncomfortable chuckle. Then, “Absolutely not. As it were she was a...mistress.”

“Abe send you over?”

“No. I don’t know an Abe.”

“Why do you want the mistress?”