Excerpt from The 9th Man:
Excerpt from The 9th Man:
No sooner had I replaced the receiver in its cradle when
the phone rang again, startling me. I waited until the second ring, then
picked it up again.
"Hardesty Investigations."
"Mr. Hardesty!" It took only five syllables for me to
recognize Rholfing's twitter.
"Yes, Mr. Rholfing," I said, again using my all-business
voice. "What can I do for you?" Shit! I did it again!
But Rholfing apparently wasn't into 'cute' this
morning. Instead, his voice was breathless with excitement.
"I know, Mr. Hardesty! I know!" He sounded like
a ten-year-old with a secret he was just dying to share.
"I'm glad, Mr. Rholfing. What is it you know?"
He was nearly panting. "I know those people you were
asking me about! I remember them all!"
I felt the adrenaline pumping through me, but tried to
keep my voice--and myself--calm. "Are you sure?" I asked, hoping this wasn't
just another of his ploys to get me into the bedroom.
The excitement in his voice was tinged with just a slight pout.
"Of course I'm sure. I was so stupid not to have known the minute
you mentioned them, but as I told you, I'm absolutely dreadful with names.
But I remember other things. Alan Roberts or Rogers or whichever it is is
a painter; Clete Baker is a big man with a football player's body and the
IQ of a baked potato. Arthur...uh, what was it...Granger has this
thing for truck drivers and Hells Angels rejects--I think he and Clete had
something going there for awhile, but I'm not sure; and Arnold...uh...Klein
may look like a mouse, but he's a certified sex maniac, I can tell you. Am
I right? Am I?"
I hoped he was near the bathroom, because it sounded
as though he might pee in his pants any second. But by this time, I was getting
nearly as excited as he was. Still, I fought to keep my voice cool.
"It sounds like you've got it just about right," I said.
"But how do you know them? What's the link between them, if any?"
"Oh, there's a link, all right. But that's all part of the
surprise! I've got to tell you in person. Why don't you stop by tonight around
five thirty? We can have cocktails, and I can tell you all about it."
I wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by the
neck, but I kept my voice calm. "Well, couldn't you tell me now..."
His voice changed from excited schoolgirl to Gestapo
interrogator. "No, I can't! You probably know already, anyway. You
haven't kept me up to date as you promised, Mr. Hardesty. I mean, I hardly
know what's going on...."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rholfing," I said, trying to soothe him and
feeling only slightly guilty. "I'll tell you what; why don't I just come
by now, and we can talk about it?" I could always bring along a cattle prod
in case he got too out of hand.
"I'm afraid I'm going to be...uh...busy this morning,
Mr. Hardesty," he said, his voice, like a fluid transmission, shifting from
scorned bitch to coy suitor once again. "Five thirty would be much better.
I should be...through...by then"…a girlish giggle. "Oh, yes,
and I have some more money for you. And you will tell me everything
you've been doing on the case, won't you?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Rholfing. I don't mean to press
you, but perhaps if you could give me some clue over the phone, I'd be able
to do something on it today and have something more for you by this evening."
Tell me, you twit!
"We'll, maybe just a little clue won't hurt. As I say,
you probably already know, but..." There was a muted sound of bells in the
background. Rholfing's voice regained its excited tone. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry,
but mygentleman caller has arrived. I must go. See you at five thirty. Ta-taaa."
And with that, he hung up.
I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds
before finally hanging up. A quick knotting in the pit of my stomach told
me something was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, God, what was it? I felt like I'd
eaten a cannon ball. My mind raced through the file cabinets of my memory,
frantically searching for...something.
Oh, shit! ShitShitShit!! I fumbled frantically
through my address book, looking for Rholfing's number. Finding it at last,
I dialed, cursing the phone company for the slowness of its equipment. An
eternity passed, and finally...a busy signal! A fucking busy signal!
I literally ran out of the office, mentally fighting
with myself to keep from panicking.
I made it to Rholfing's apartment as fast as I could.
Every inch of the way, my mind kept repeating: Alan Rogers, Gene Harriman,
Arthur Granger, Clete Barker, Arnold Klein. Let me be wrong about Rholfing's
'gentleman caller'! Let it not be who I think it is!
Rogers, Harriman, Granger, Barker, and Klein: Rholfing
didn't know they were dead!