The Second Mystery Megapack. Mack Reynolds

long time, and I’ve seen plenty, but I never saw anybody take such a long chance,” I said.

      He looked at me for a minute more, then drank his whiskey and poured another one.

      “I was so scared I couldn’t move,” he said.

      JUST THE FACTS, by Meg Opperman

      Monday, 10:55 A.M.

      “Excuse me? We need some help.” The husky voice belonged to a short black lady, maybe five years my senior. She stood near a tanned blonde pushing a shopping cart.

      “Who, me?” My voice came out an octave higher than usual. I cleared my throat and moved out from my hiding place behind a pile of printer boxes.

      “You do work here?” The husky-voiced lady smiled.

      “I…” A nervous tic pulled at my cheek.

      “Not much of a talker,” she said. “Like that in a man. Got height, too. Mmm-mmm. What’s your name, tall-man?”

      “M-Mike Blontine.” Why did I tell her my name?

      “Well Mike, you should wear your nametag.” She tapped me on the chest where a nametag would hang. “My friend wants a laptop for her kids, but there’s so many to choose from. Everyone says Digital Delights has the best deals. What do you suggest?”

      I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. Oh man, where was Slick Danny when I needed him? My partner, Daniel Jackson Lee, could smooth-talk the spots off a leopard. Not me. Being a private investigator with Asperger Syndrome means I’m no good with people. But I know how to assemble facts.

      And I know for a fact I shouldn’t be standing here talking to someone I’ve been tailing. Well, tailing the blonde. Sandra Montebella. We’ve been following her for four days now.

      “You do know about computers?” The husky-voiced lady sighed. “I like a man that knows computers.”

      Sandra elbowed her friend. “Evania, please.”

      “What? I do. You mind your own business, Sandy.” She turned to me. “Now, Mike, can you help us, or what?”

      I nodded. I looked at the neat rows of computer screens and took a steadying breath. “You need one of the new i7 processors, the 940 is a good one, because it runs at a clock speed of 4.2 Gigahertz, and has an 8 meg L3 cache. You’ll want about 16 gigs of DDR 3 RAM, with a clock speed of 1866 Megahertz, a GeForce GTX 68M video card for games and other graphics—and this one has one of the new solid state drives, basically there are no moving parts, so the data access time is a lot less, and also uses less power, so you’ll get a better battery life—and don’t get the warranty, ’cause it doesn’t really cover what it needs to, and even if something should fail, the computer will be out of date by then anyway.”

      “Oh my. That’s a mouthful.” Evania stepped closer. “Well handsome, which one of these has all that?”

      “Uh, those two.” I pointed to the end of the aisle. “But really you should go to Everything Electronics. They’ve got the best prices.” I smiled. Man, I was good.

      Evania chuckled. “Didn’t think you were supposed to send us to the competition.”

      “I…I’m a terrible liar.”

      “Good to know, Mike.” Evania moved even closer.

      Sandra shook her head, turned, and pushed her cart down the aisle. She stopped in front of the two computers I’d recommended.

      “So, what time does your shift end? Maybe we could get together later?” Evania said.

      “What for?” I asked.

      “How about a drink? Or dinner, if you’re game.”

      “Uh…” My palms started sweating. Was she asking me out? “I’ll be right back,” I squeaked.

      I rounded the aisle, sprinted out the automated door, then paused outside to catch my breath.

      I’m no good with women. That was a fact.

      * * * *

      Monday, 2:15 P.M.

      “Damn, that’s as cold as my ex-wife’s heart.” Slick Danny’s southern accent echoed through Global Investigation’s hallway. He laughed, ran a hand down the front of his silk tie. “Mistaken for a Digital Delights employee. You gotta dress better.”

      I looked down at my black Izod shirt and khaki pants. What was wrong with them? Clothes were supposed to be comfortable.

      “They didn’t know I’m a P.I., though.”

      “Nope, you’re right on that account, but I wouldn’t go bragging about it.” He paused beside a soda machine. “Got a dollar?”

      I reached in my wallet and gave him the money. He never seemed to have change. Co-workers kept passing us in the hallway. Most were snickering. Several called out:

      “Hey Blontine, didn’t know you were moonlighting at Digital Delights. Can you hook me up?”

      “Me, too, Mike, I’d like a new computer…for my kids.”

      “Hey, how come you’re not wearing a nametag? I might have to report you to the manager.”

      I glared at Slick Danny.

      He shrugged. “Sorry, Michael, but it was just too funny not to share.”

      I stomped into our office and sank into my chair. I was always the butt of some office joke.

      Slick Danny entered almost six minutes later. “I told them to knock it off, okay?”

      I spun the chair so my back faced him.

      “Come on, Michael, I said I was sorry. Have a sense of humor.”

      I turned around. “No one makes fun of you. And you didn’t have to help.” I picked up the Montebella file and thumbed through it. Phones rang, and the copy machine hummed. Global Investigation’s other PIs were busy with their cases and I needed to be, too.

      “Who cares what they think? Most of them are so dumb, they could throw themselves on the ground and miss.”

      I shuffled the papers, put them back in the file. “I can’t tail Sandra now. You want me to work on another case?”

      “Nah. You can pull the night shift. I shouldn’t have sent you during the day. I know better, but Roger was busy, and I had a…a meeting.” Slick Danny came over and sat on the edge of my desk.

      The smell of cigarettes and perfume made me sneeze.

      “How come you smell like a girl?” I asked. “Doesn’t Shelley in Accounting wear that same kind of perfume?”

      “You stick to the facts, Michael, and leave me to handle people. Y’hear?”

      “Yeah. Just the facts.”

      * * * *

      One week later, Monday 12:14 P.M.

      “Bloody paragon. She’d depress the devil!” Slick Danny smoothed a hand down his silk tie, took a long drag on his cigarette.

      Slick Danny hated infidelity investigations, especially since most are wives spying on their husbands. Said he liked tailing the wife for a change. Guess he was still sore ex-wife-number-three hired our competition to check up on him.

      Our assignment was simple. Eleven days ago, when our client Richard Montebella left the District for a bankers’ convention, we’d begun investigating his wife. He wanted some dirt in case Sandra filed for divorce. Slick Danny says it’s ’cause Montebella’s a cheater and if we didn’t get anything on her, she’d take her soon-to-be-ex-husband to the cleaners.

      We’d had a promising lead, too. Our client had left us a photocopy of his wife’s datebook, the name ‘Carl’ circled. They met once a week. So we waited and we watched.