“Not that I’ve ever killed anyone,” he says when he notices her watching. His neck had gone blotchy red. “That would be crazy.”
She drums her fingers on the counter and looks around, tries to think while she keeps an eye on the guy behind the counter. His words might not mean anything, he might’ve just been thinking out loud, but you could never be too safe. Cold, hard cash was as good a reason as any to kill, and she’d have to mention this guy to Hoskins, make sure the cops were keeping an eye on him. The gallery is small, dingy, the art on display covered in dust. It’s a business in desperate need of a few good sales.
“You sure you’re not a cop?” the man says, yanking on his beard. He seems nervous.
She tilts her head, considering.
“I’m not with the police, I’m with the paper,” she says, “I’m writing a piece on Jacky Seever, and the new Secondhand Killer. And if you can help in any way—well, I’d appreciate it.”
He looks down at her hand like she’s a strange bug he’d never encountered before, and she wonders if she’s going about this all wrong.
“How could I help you?”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Simon.”
“You’re not Albert?”
“That was my dad.”
“Okay, Simon. You mentioned you get calls about Seever’s work?”
“Yeah. Quite a few lately, since these new murders started up.” He taps his knuckles on the counter. “For a long time it’s just been one guy. Same dude, every week. He calls and asks if I have anything new from Seever. Every week, never fails. Anytime there’s a piece available he buys it over the phone, has me ship it to him.”
“One guy?”
“Yep. Same one, all the time. He must have a real hard-on for Seever.”
“How long’s he been calling?”
“Oh, for a while now. The last few months, I guess.”
“Do you have his shipping address on file?”
“Nope. It’s never the same one, so I don’t bother taking it down.”
“You know his name?”
“I don’t remember, and I’m not even going to wager a guess. If my computer was up and running I’d tell you, but it crashed a few days ago and I haven’t had the cash to get it fixed.”
“Did you tell the cop all this?” she asks. “About this guy who calls?”
“No,” Simon says, pursing his lips. “He never asked about that, and I didn’t think it was important. Besides, I didn’t like him very much. He was rude, right from the moment he walked in, demanding information. I didn’t get into this business to be a slave to the police. Have some manners, or it’s good day to you, sir.”
She laughs at that, and Simon’s eyes light up.
“You’ve got a great laugh,” he says.
“Thank you,” she says, reaching over and touching the top of Simon’s hand. She feels so stupid, trying to flirt with this guy, but she’ll do whatever it takes. “You’re sure you don’t know how to reach the guy who always calls about Seever?”
Simon sighs. “No, but I’m sure I’ll get a call from him any day now, and if you want I’ll take down his number and make sure it gets into your hands.”
“You’d do that?” she says.
“Oh, yeah,” Simon says. He smiles sweetly. “For a fair exchange.”
Here it comes, Sammie thinks. She’d been waiting for this.
“What do you want from me?” she asks. “Dinner, or something?”
He snorts, laughs so hard his beard trembles.
“I’m not so sure my boyfriend would like that idea,” he says. “How about you write something about me for the paper?”
“Like, an advertisement?” she asks.
“No. More like an article about a struggling local business. I need to get some customers through these doors.” He gives another laugh. “And this article, I want it on the front page.”
“I don’t decide those kinds of things,” Sammie says, tapping her knuckles impatiently on the counter. “I can’t promise anything like that.”
“You seem like a persuasive woman. I mean, it seems like you could be, if you want me to put you in touch with this guy.”
Sammie chews on the inside of her cheek. If she gets a good story out of this, she might be able to swing it. Besides, there’s always the chance that Simon won’t hear from the guy again, and this trip will be a complete loss. Better to blow on the dice and give them a roll.
“I can try.”
“Good enough for me,” he says, and pulls a business card out of his pocket. “Here. Write down your info. I’ll text you as soon as I hear from him.”
“You’re the cherry Lifesaver,” she says, scribbling down her number. That nervous pit that’s been eating at the inside of her stomach for the last few days is gone, and she’s starting to think that everything might be okay. If this guy actually gets a call and remembers to text her the info, she’ll have a story and her ass will be saved. Better late than never.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re the best,” she says, and winks. “And I always save the best for last.”