“Collection agent,” Chemo said. Watching Chloe move around the house, he saw that she was a very beautiful woman: auburn hair, long legs, and a good figure. Listening to her, he could tell she was also hard as nails.
“Mick is my ex,” Chloe said. “I have nothing good to say about him. Nothing.”
“He owe you money, too?”
She chuckled harshly. “No, I took him for every goddamn dime. Cleaned his clock.” She drummed her ruby fingernails on the side of the ginger ale glass. “I’m now married to a CPA,” she said. “Has his own firm.”
“Nice to hear it,” Chemo said.
“Dull as a dog turd, but at least he’s no lunatic.”
Chemo shifted in the chair. “Lunatic, you keep saying that word. What do you mean? Is Mr. Stranahan violent? Did he hit you?”
“Mick? Never. Not me,” Chloe said. “But he did attack a friend of mine. A male-type friend.”
Chemo figured he ought to learn as much as possible about the man he was supposed to kill. He said to Chloe, “What exactly did Mick do to this male-type friend?”
“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” Chloe got up and dumped a jigger of vodka into her ginger ale. “He was always on the road, Mick was. Never home. No doubt he was screwing around.”
“You know for a fact?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“So you got a … boyfriend.”
“You’re a smart one,” Chloe said mordantly. “A goddamn rocket scientist, you are. Yes, I got a boyfriend. And he loved me, this guy. He treated me like a queen.”
Chemo said. “So one night Mr. Stranahan gets home early from a trip and catches the two of you—”
“In action,” Chloe said. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t plan it that way. God knows I didn’t want him to walk in on us—you gotta know Mick, it’s just not a safe situation.”
“Short fuse?”
“No fuse.”
“So then what?”
Chloe sighed. “I can’t believe I’m telling this to some stranger, a bill collector! Unbelievable.” She polished off her drink and got another. This time when she came back from the bar, she sat down on the divan next to Chemo; close enough that he could smell her perfume.
“I ‘m a talker,” she said with a soft smile. The smile certainly didn’t go with the voice.
“And I’m a listener,” Chemo said.
“And I like you.”
“You do?” This broad is creepy, he thought, a real head case.
“I like you,” Chloe went on, “and I’d like to help you with your problem.”
“Then just tell me,” Chemo said, “where I can find your ex-husband.”
“How much are you willing to pay?”
“Ah, so that’s it.”
“Everything’s got a price,” Chloe said, “especially good information.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Stranahan, I don’t have any money. Money is the reason I’m looking for Mick.”
Chloe crossed her legs, and Chemo noticed a very fine run in one of her nylon stockings; it seemed to go on forever, all the way up her thigh. Who knew where it ended? Internally he cautioned himself against such distractions. Any moment now, she was going to say something about his Rice Krispie face—Chemo knew it.
“You’re not a bill collector,” Chloe said sharply, “so cut the shit.”
“All right,” Chemo said. Feverishly he set his limited imagination to work, trying to come up with another story.
“I don’t care what you are.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. Long as you’re not a friend of Mick’s.”
Chemo said, “I’m not a friend.”
“Then I’ll help,” Chloe said, “maybe.”
“What about the money?” Chemo said. “The most I can do is a hundred dollars, maybe one fifty.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Christ, he couldn’t believe this woman. A hundred bucks.
She said, “But before I agree to help, you ought to know everything. It would be irresponsible for me not to warn you what you’re up against.”
“I can handle myself,” Chemo said with a cold smile. Even that—his fractured, cadaverous leer—didn’t seem to bother Chloe Simpkins Stranahan.
She said, “So you really don’t want to know?”
“Go ahead, then, shoot. What did Stranahan do to your precious boyfriend?”
“He put Krazy Glue on his balls.”