Loose Ends by D. D. Vandyke Page A

highball with three fingers of what turned out to be a good brandy. After handing it to me, he clinked his glass to mine and sat down. “ Prost ,” he said.
    “Is that German?” I glanced over at an idealized portrait of Hitler hanging on one wall.
    “It is. And you’re Japanese.”
    “One quarter. My grandmother was from Misawa.”
    “Our ancestors were allies.”
    “In World War Two? I guess they were.”
    “Blood will out.” Luger sipped. “So why did you come to me, miss…?”
    “Call me Gale.” That was my middle name and had the added benefit of being spelled unusually, reducing the ease of tracking me down.
    “You may call me Gunther.” He pronounced the name with a hard “t” rather than the “th” sound, like a German would I suppose, and raised his eyebrows, silently reiterating his question.
    The whole situation felt surreal, one of those things that only happens in art films or real life, which is always stranger than fiction. This guy seemed more like a reclusive millionaire than a neo-Nazi drug dealer. I wondered if he could be Houdini after all, a blind within a blind.
    If he was, and having got this far, what would I say to him? Anything I asked might reveal more than it gained. Proper police interrogation methodology was to establish a rapport with the interviewee to try to make him feel like you’re on his side and have his best interests at heart. Find some common ground. Also, a healthy dose of half-truth got better results than the slickest lies.
    “I used to be a cop, but now I’m an independent businesswoman. I do some bodyguarding, security consulting, skip tracing, that sort of thing.” Taking a drink, I paused as if searching for words and trying to be eloquent.
    Luger’s expression remained polite, interested, but he said nothing. A man of self-control, then.
    “Like you, I often walk in a gray area between the legal and illegal to get the job done. Like you, I have my own ideas of right and wrong, and like you, I suspect, I stick to them the best I can.”
    Sipping his brandy, Luger continued watching me under lowered brows. It was a bit disconcerting, this intensity, but I had no feeling I was in any danger. If anything he seemed fascinated. Maybe he had some weird fantasy of an inter-fascist ideological hookup.
    “I asked my acquaintance out there,” I cocked my head at the closed door to the front room, “to introduce me to you because I want two things. The first and more minor one is an occasional supply of safe, genuine pharmaceuticals, which I understand you can get your hands on.”
    “Why don’t you want to get them from the Irishman out there?”
    The Irishman? Red? It seemed Luger constantly thought in racial terms. I said, “Markup. Reliability. Discretion. And the second thing, which is something only you might be able to give me.”
    Again, Luger merely raised his eyebrows. He used silence quite effectively, this man.
    I went on, “There’s a young white girl of ten I’m looking for. She’s disappeared and I have reason to believe she’s been taken by someone dealing in pills. I know the pipelines are usually different from one product to the next, but I hope you might have heard of a man named Houdini.”
    “Everyone has heard of Houdini. That means nothing.”
    “Good. I hope that says you’re not involved.” I knew no such thing, of course, but keeping my cards close to the vest was second nature to me. “Because you’re not, perhaps you could help me get her back.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “I’d owe you a favor. Also, I have no interest in making trouble for your business. This kid is trouble. Her body turning up will bring down a lot of heat. In fact, if she does turn up dead and I do too, I’ve made arrangements for everything I’ve found to fall into the hands of several powerful people who owe me .”
    “Are you threatening me, Gale?”
    I held his gaze. “Not at all. I’m stating certain unpleasant possibilities and