Murder Miscalculated by Andrew MacRae Page B

woman, finely dressed and with expensively styled blue-tinted hair, sat in the center of a curved booth. She sipped from a thin china cup and held one delicate and manicured little finger out straight. She watched as we progressed across the room and set the cup down in its matching saucer as we arrived.
    “Hello, Kid. It’s nice to see you again.”
    “Hello, Doris,” I replied. “Nice to see you doing so well.” I surveyed the dining room. “Business must be good.” Doris Whitaker motioned with her hand.
    “Please, sit down. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
    I sat across the table from her. Chad sat close by on my right. I had seen the look in his eye when I addressed his boss by her first name. He either resented my violation of protocol, or perhaps he was jealous, not that I cared.
    We studied each other for a minute. Like The Empire Room where she holds court each day, Doris Whitaker is a holdover from an earlier time. Her dress, her hairstyle, the string of pearls around her neck—all were like an illustration from Life Magazine in the late1950s. Thick pancake makeup masked the lines that age had etched in her face, but I knew her outward appearance covered a criminal cunning that kept her alive and in business.
    Our mutual inspection over, Doris got straight to the point. “Kid, I hear you’re back in business.”
    “You heard right.”
    “Yet only days ago you told Chad that you were done with working as a dip.”
    “Yes, well after I saw how poor the competition was these days, I decided it was time to show how it’s really done.”
    Chad made a slight hissing noise. Doris waved him quiet. “The point of my questions, Kid, is to let you know that things have changed in the year since you quit the street.”
    “Have they?” I tried to look innocent.
    “Yes, Kid, they have.” Doris picked up a butter knife from a small plate near her. It was silver, like the other tableware, and beautifully polished. I watched Doris turn the knife in her hands, and the light from the chandeliers reflected on its small, blunt blade. I had no reason to fear it, but a shiver went down my spine nonetheless.
    “You see, Kid,” Doris continued as she played with the knife. “I’ve taken over the pickpocketing business in town. All the dips work for me now, and I take care of them.” She tried to look maternal, but she wasn’t any better at it than I was at looking innocent. “It’s a rough world out on the street these days, Kid. You’ll find you will appreciate working for me.”
    I acted like I was mulling it over. “That’s an awfully nice offer, Doris, but I’m afraid I have to turn you down. I don’t think I would make a good employee.”
    The butter knife struck the plate as Doris dropped it. A waitress laying out silverware at a nearby table turned at the sound and looked at us.
    Doris’ eyes shot daggers at me.
    “I don’t think you understood me, Kid. I wasn’t making you an offer. I was telling you how it is. I run the pickpockets in this town, and if you want to work the street and stay healthy, you won’t fight me on this.”
    I reached across the table and picked up the butter knife, then leaned back in my chair. I gazed at Doris as if considering what she said, but all the time I was flipping that stupid, dull knife around my fingers.
    Both Doris and her young thug Chad couldn’t help watching. I let the knife weave between my fingers, its blade catching the light again and again. I gave a little flip to my hand and the knife jumped to my other hand where I continued its dance between my fingers. At the right moment I slapped it onto the table and stood up, catching both Doris and Chad by surprise.
    “Sorry, Doris,” I said, “but the answer’s still no.”
    Chad tried to get to his feet, but when he tried to push his chair back he found I had placed one foot firmly on the rung across its base and instead, he just rocked back and forth looking foolish. Anger