Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 17 - Retro by Loren D. Estleman Page A

the noisy party of six, stacking soiled plates and silver on a butler cart. The diners had spilled drinks and food on the cloth, filled the ashtrays, and from the tight look on the waiter’s handsome dark face—quickly abandoned when he looked at me—hadn’t left much of a tip.
    “Just a guess,” I said. “Ten percent.”
    He smiled his brief smile. “It’s a privilege to work here on salary alone, sir. Would you like a table?”
    “I’d like five minutes.” I held up a ten-spot folded into quarters.
    He resumed scraping crumbs. “I only serve food.”
    “I’m not a pervert, just ignorant. I seek enlightenment.”
    He looked around. The headwaiter was in conference with the woman at the reservation stand. Customers had begun to trickle out. We had the section to ourselves. He executed a graceful movement and the bill was gone. “Okay if I keep doing what I’m doing?”
    “Sure. You look like a fellow who can work and think at the same time. Boxer?”
    “I didn’t know I stuttered.”
    “I boxed a little in college. You learn what to look for.” I pointed at the bump on his nose. “Left jab?”
    “Steering wheel. I was sparring when most people my age were taking drivers’ ed. How much of the ten have I used up?”
    “That was small talk. You told me Mr. West called down to ask me to meet him in his room. Did you take the call?”
    “The hostess did.” He cocked an eyebrow toward the woman talking to the headwaiter.
    “She probably wouldn’t know if it was him calling. I doubt he came down after he checked in.”
    “Didn’t you ask him?”
    “There didn’t seem to be any point in it.”
    I was using my poker voice, but he had an ear for inflection. Hearing is almost as important in the ring as seeing. He stopped working and faced me.
    “Two from a nine-millimeter,” I said. “Maybe a thirty-eight. Anyway they were too big for a thirty-two, and forty-fives and magnums chew up more meat. He might have been the one who called down. It was pretty fresh.”
    He looked me up and down. “Police?”
    “Private. Whoever did it cost me a client.”
    “Then you can’t spare this. I don’t keep what I didn’t earn.” He slipped the ten from his apron pocket and held it out between two fingers. There was a little scarring on the knuckles.
    “You won’t get far in sports with that attitude.” I looked down at the table. A cork-tipped cigarette had smoked itself out in one of the ashtrays. The redhead wore pink lipstick to match her suit. “I’ll let you work it off. What name did the skinny guy sign on the check?”
    “Is he a suspect?” He put away the bill.
    “Not unless he could be in two places at once. He just caught my eye. Also my ears.”
    “He didn’t sign anything. He paid cash.”
    “Did he pay for anyone else?”
    “Everyone else.”
    “Who pays cash for a party that size at these prices?”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir. I just wait tables.” He dumped the ashtray into a lined bag attached to the cart.
    “Guess.”
    “Movie stars and gangsters. They don’t like to give away autographs.”
    I remembered the high-pitched bray of the man who insisted on sharing his meal with his guests. “Ever see this one in a movie?”
    “I work out evenings. I don’t see many movies.”
    “You wouldn’t have seen him if you had a season pass. That voice would knock the earphones off a sound crew.”
    His forehead puckered. “Wait, I remember someone at the table called him by a name. Something German. Morgenstern? Mr. Morgenstern.”
    It didn’t do anything for me, besides suggest he hadn’t borrowed the J.M. cufflinks. “Do you know if he’s staying in the hotel?”
    He shook his head.
    “Okay. Where do you work out?”
    “Kronk.”
    “Good club.”
    “Great club. It turned out Tommy Hearns.”
    “You don’t have his reach.”
    “Neither did Ray Leonard. That didn’t keep him from wiping the canvas with Tommy.”
    “Twice.”
    “I don’t count the second time. That