Hush Money by Peter Israel

paper called stock certificates. Another one of those dirty jobs, in short, which is buried under swank offices and titles and for which the guy who does the laundry gets a nice percentage.
    Anyway the leak, if it was a leak, surprised the hell out of me. The Diehl Corporation had always been a family swindle, the rumors of public stock offerings had always turned out to be just that. According to Freddy Schwartz there was enough Diehl cash in the till to keep the tracts growing from here to San Diego and back. Not that it could have made any difference as far as I was concerned—my personal horde is far too small to get people like the Diehls all hot and bothered—but it sure could have interested someone I knew, and who they knew I knew.
    It was a leak all right.
    The more so since a few minutes after Bryce Jr. hung up, Andrew Diehl said to me:
    â€œWe’ve been wondering—just between ourselves, and of course it won’t go any further than right here—but why don’t you come to work for us? I think we could make it interesting to you. After all, we’re all in this together more or less. At least we’re after the same thing. Instead of working at cross-purposes, why couldn’t we join forces?”
    â€œWhat we mean,” Bryce Jr. said, “is that if you’re interested, we think we could make you a very attractive proposition.”
    It had all been a show then, put on for my benefit, a way maybe of pointing out that their grass was at least as green as his, and maybe there was more of it.
    I suppose I could have said: I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. I could have said: All your brother-in-law is paying me to do is find out how your niece dropped seven stories’ worth of air and by the laws of gravity met her untimely death, and so far he’s not getting much of a return on his investment. I could also have said: You can stick your proposition up your brotherly ass.
    â€œBy the way,” I asked innocently enough, “what’s going to happen to Karen’s estate?”
    Which, as it happened, served the same purpose.
    Call it 90 percent luck and 10 percent intuition, or a legacy from beyond the grave of the Karen I’d known, but it was the answer they didn’t want to hear. You could tell it not only in the twitch of their aristocratic cheeks but in the signal that dotdashed between their eyes.
    â€œI’m … I’m afraid we wouldn’t be the ones who could tell you that,” Andrew Diehl said stiffly.
    â€œAfter all,” Bryce Jr. said, “the poor girl’s only just been laid to rest.”
    And on her way to St. Peter, amen, but that hadn’t kept one of them from hopping a plane to New York in the midst of their bereavement.
    â€œBut she must have left a will,” I said. “Or …”
    But, it suddenly occurred to me, why should she have? Twenty-year-old coeds didn’t go around writing their wills. Then …?
    â€œI’m afraid we wouldn’t know about that,” Bryce Jr. said.
    â€œBut somebody would,” I said. “George Curie would, for …”
    â€œMr. Curie doesn’t represent us.”
    â€œAh,” I said, “but it seems to me somewhere I heard he did.”
    â€œHe did,” Bryce Jr. said. “He doesn’t any more. We severed the relationship.”
    â€œOh?” I said. “When was that?”
    But all of a sudden the bar was closed, to me anyway. I could have hung around there till Doomsday and no one would have told me how Man o’ War’s great-great-great-grandson was going to run in Saturday’s feature.
    I got the message. I flipped them mentally for the bill, and they lost. Then we shook hands, like proper gentlemen mind you, but it was still: on your way, buster .
    It was dark outside when I came across the parking lot. The stars were out, and a yellow California moon was climbing over the hills. The