The Big Fix by Roger L. Simon

Author:Roger L. Simon [Simon, Roger L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: mystery, detective
ISBN: 158824010X
Publisher: Ibooks, Inc.
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

HE’S JUST A two-bit Nevada hood, the kind that would dry-gulch a blind man for $1.85.”

Koontz shrugged with a certain snugness. It was mid-morning and we were sitting at the counter of Winchell’s doughnut place on Glendale Boulevard. The cop had a maple bar in front of him and a cup of black coffee.

“For you I wouldn’t do diddly-shit.”

“What do you want, Koontz? Justice or law? If he were a peace marcher, you’d pistol-whip your own mother to find out who he was.”

“The right of privacy, Wine. As you know, every citizen has the right to be protected from random snooping into his personal affairs.” The policeman swallowed the maple bar in two bites and washed it down with his coffee. “What do you want him for?”

“To get to the heart of this Lila Shea business. You want it solved, don’t you?”

“What’s his name?”

“Jonas.”

“Jonas what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it his first name or last name?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Koontz looked at me in disgust. “That’s all you’ve got?” With his left hand, he signalled the waitress to bring him a cheese danish and a second cup of coffee.

“Well, it could be Jonah, not Jonas. I wasn’t that close and the other party was speaking quickly.”

“The other party?”

“Sorry.” I smiled at him.

“Now come on, Wine. What’s going on here?”

“It’s very simple, Koontz.” I spoke slowly, distinctly. “I want you to find out the identity of a bimbo named Jonas, or possibly Jonah. He’s about five feet eleven, hair blonde, eyes blue, solid build. He probably drinks a lot because of the redness in his cheeks. He carries a Saturday Night Special and goes around with a buddy who drives a green 1971 Chevelle with phony Nevada license plates.”

“Uhuh . . . and how am I going to do that?”

“The wheels of justice, pal. You’ve got the materials—computers, files. This bird must have spent twelve of the last fifteen years in the slam.” I wrote the details of his identity on a paper napkin and passed them to him.

“And what if I do? What’s in it for me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Glory, Koontz. The glory of a solved case. You’ll be hell’s own bloodhound. And just think. I’m bringing you the first solid clue you’ve got.”

“Our first solid clue was your fingerprints on Lila Shea’s dashboard. You’re about a quarter of an inch from arrest, Wine.”

The waitress came over with the cheese danish. Koontz sliced it in half, eating it as rapidly as the maple bar. When he had finished, the waitress reached under the counter and presented him with a box of a dozen doughnuts, neatly tie with a ribbon. It had his name on it. Eugene Koontz.

“You know we private citizens pay for that stuff,” said, standing and pointing to the box. “I bet you’re the type who sleeps on the beat too.” I crossed toward the door. “Oh, by the way, you’d better look into this fast. I heard rumor about a freeway explosion the morning of May 31. Of course that might just be a rumor.

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