“Righto, Mr. Thayer,” I said wearily. “Just you, me, and Arnie’s Steak Joynt.”
He caught his breath but remembered he was trying to be conciliatory. “It’s really Anita, my son’s girl friend. Not that Pete—my son, that is—hasn’t been a bit of a problem, too.”
Dope, I thought morosely. All these North Shore types think about is dope. If it was a pregnancy, they’d just pay for an abortion and be done with it. However, mine was not to pick and choose, so I grunted encouragingly.
“Well, this Anita is not really a very desirable type, and ever since Pete got mixed up with her he’s been having some peculiar ideas.” The language sounded strangely formal in his husky voice.
“I’m afraid I only detect things, Mr. Thayer. I can’t do too much about what the boy thinks.”
“No, no, I know that. It’s just that—they’ve been living together in some disgusting commune or other—did I tell you they’re students at the University of Chicago? Anyway, he, Pete, he’s taken to talking about becoming a union organizer and not going to business school, so I went down to talk to the girl. Make her see reason, kind of.”
“What’s her last name, Mr. Thayer?”
“Hill. Anita Hill. Well, as I said, I went down to try to make her see reason. And—right after that she disappeared.”
“It sounds to me like your problem’s solved.”
“I wish it was. The thing is, now Pete’s saying I bought her off, paid her to disappear. And he’s threatening to change his name and drop out of sight unless she turns up again.”
Now I’ve heard everything, I thought. Hired to find a person so her boyfriend would go to business school.
“And were you responsible for her disappearance, Mr. Thayer?”
“Me? If I was, I’d be able to get her back.”
“Not necessarily. She could have squeezed fifty grand out of you and gone off on her own so you couldn’t get it back. Or you could have paid her to disappear completely. Or you may have killed her or caused her to he killed and want someone else to take the rap for you. A guy like you has a lot of resources.”
He seemed to laugh a little at that. “Yeah, I suppose all that could be true. Anyway, I want you to find her—to find Anita.”
“Mr. Thayer, I don’t like to turn down work, but why not get the police—they’re much better equipped than I for this sort of thing.”
“The police and I—” he started, then broke off. “I don’t feel like advertising my family problems to the police,” he said heavily.
That had the ring of truth—but what had he started to say? “And why were you so worried about things getting heavy?” I wondered aloud.
He shifted in his chair a bit. “Some of those students can get pretty wild,” he muttered. I raised my eyebrows skeptically, but he couldn’t see that in the dark.
“How did you get my name?” I asked. Like an advertising survey—did you hear about us in Rolling Stone or through a friend?
“I found your name in the Yellow Pages. And I wanted someone in the Loop and someone who didn’t know—my business associates.”
“Mr. Thayer, I charge a hundred and a quarter a day, plus expenses. And I need a five-hundred-dollar deposit. I make progress reports, but clients don’t tell me how to do the job—any more than your widows and orphans tell you how to run the Fort Dearborn’s Trust Department.”
“Then you will take the job?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said shortly. Unless the girl was dead, it shouldn’t be too hard to find her. “I’ll need your son’s address at the university,” I added. “And a picture of the girl if you have one.”
He hesitated over that, seemed about to say something, but then gave it to me: 5462 South Harper. I hoped it was the right place. He also produced a picture of Anita Hill. I couldn’t make it out in the spasmodic light, but it looked like a yearbook snap. My client asked me to call him at home to report progress, rather than at the office. I jotted his home number on the business card and put it back in my pocket.
“How soon do you think you’ll know something?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you until I’ve looked at it, Mr. Thayer. But I’ll get on the case first thing tomorrow.”
“Why can’t you go down there tonight?” he persisted.
“Because I have other things to do,” I answered shortly. Like dinner and a drink.
He argued for a bit, not so much because he thought I’d change my mind as because he was used to getting his own way. He finally gave up on it and handed me five hundred-dollar bills.
I squinted at them in the light from Arnie’s. “I take checks, Mr. Thayer.”
“I’m trying to keep people at the office from knowing I’ve been to a detective. And my secretary balances my checkbook.”