“Come on in, Vic,” Mrs. Bendix boomed from across a paper-littered desk. “Sit down. Haven’t seen you in days. What have you been doing with yourself?”
I sat down and grinned at her.
“This and that,” I told her. “Keeping the wolf from the door. I’ve looked in for a little help, Martha. Done any business with the Crosbys?”
“Not for a long time.” She leaned down and hoisted up a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and half a dozen coffee beans. “Make it snappy,” she went on. “I don’t want to shock Mary. She doesn’t approve of drinking in office hours.”
“That Mary with the rabbit teeth?”
“Never mind about her teeth. She’s not going to bite you with them.” She handed me a glass half full of Scotch and three of the coffee beans. “You mean the Crosbys on Foothill Boulevard?”
I said I meant the Crosbys on Foothill Boulevard.
“I did a job for them once, but not since. That was about six years ago. I fixed the whole of their staff then. Since Janet Crosby died they cleared out the old crowd and put in a new lot. They didn’t come to me for the new lot.”
I sampled the Scotch. It was smooth and silky, and had plenty of authority.
“You mean they sacked everybody?”