“Hey,” Eddie Kuntz said.
“Hey,” I answered.
“I got the letter from Maxine. I thought you might want to take a look.”
* * * * *
I CRUISED over to Muffet Street and found Eddie Kuntz standing on his minuscule front lawn, hands dangling loose at his sides, staring at his front window. The window was smash city. Big hole square in the middle. Lots of fracture lines.
I slammed the door when I got out of the car, but Kuntz didn't turn at the sound, nor at my approach. We stood there for a moment, side by side, studying the window disaster.
“Nice job,” I said.
He nodded. “Square in the middle. Maxine was on the softball team in high school.”
“She do this last night?”
Another nod. “I was going to bed. I turned the light off and CRASH . . . a brick came sailing through my front window.”
“Airmail,” I said.
“Yeah, goddamn airmail. My aunt is apeshit. She's my landlady. Her and Uncle Leo live in the other half of this piece of crap. The only reason she isn't out here wringing her hands is on account of she's at church.”
“I didn't realize you were renting.”
“What, you think I'd pick out these paint colors? Do I look like one of those poofie guys?”
Hell no. Poofie guys don't think a rip in an undershirt represents a fashion statement.
He handed me a piece of white paper. “This was tied around the brick.”
The letter was handwritten and addressed to Kuntz. The message was simple. It told him he'd been a jerk, and if he wanted his property back, he was going to have to go on a treasure hunt. It said his first clue was “in the big one.” And then a bunch of mixed-?up letters followed.
“What does this mean?” I asked him.
“If I knew I wouldn't be calling you, would I? I'd be out on a goddamn treasure hunt.” He threw his hands into the air. “She's wacko. I should have known she was wacko from the beginning. She had a thing about spies. Was always watching those stupid Bond movies. I'd be b
anging her from behind, and she'd be watching James Bond on the television. Can you believe it?”
Oh yeah.
“You snoop around, right?” he said. “You know all about being a spy? You know about cracking codes?”
“I don't know anything about being a spy,” I told him. “And I don't know what this says.”
In fact, not only didn't I know anything about being a spy, I didn't even know much about being a bounty hunter. I was just bumbling along, trying to pay my rent, praying I'd win the lottery.
“So now what?” Kuntz asked.
I reread the note. “What is this property she's talking about?”
He gave me a minute-?long, blank look. “Love letters,” he finally said. “I wrote her some love letters, and I want them back. I don't want them floating around now that we're broken up. There's some embarrassing things in them.”
Eddie Kuntz didn't seem like the type to write love letters, but what do I know? He did seem like the type to trash an apartment. “Did you go to her apartment looking for the letters?”
“Yeah, but the apartment was all locked up.”
“You didn't break in? You didn't have a key?”