“What’s your name?”
“Opportunity — Mr. John Q. Opportunity.”
Bertha Cool said, “I tell you—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he interrupted smoothly. “The girl you want is Josephine Dell. She lives in the Bluebonnet Apartments on South Figueroa Street. She didn’t go to a hospital at all.”
“Why not?” Bertha asked. “The man was going to take her to a hospital.”
“That’s right,” her visitor said. “He was going to. He wanted to see that she was examined by a doctor so that he’d know she wasn’t hurt, but for some reason she didn’t. The accident was Friday night. Saturday morning she woke up feeling stiff and sore. She telephoned the place where she worked and was told to stay home that day. Sunday she stayed in bed. She could get a few hundred for a settlement — but she doesn’t know who hit her.”
The man got up, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag. His droop-lidded eyes regarded Bertha Cool speculatively. “Now,” he said, “you see where I come in.”
Bertha Cool glanced toward the door, started to say something, then checked herself.
Her visitor smiled. “Going to make the old crack about where I go out, I suppose, and caught yourself in time. After all, Mrs. Cool, you can’t very well get along without me. Well, I’ll be rambling along. No charge for that information. It’s what you might call a free sample of my wares. When you want to get the information that will make real money, let me know. Good afternoon.” He sauntered on out of the office.
Bertha was ready for the street within ten seconds of the time the door had closed on her departing visitor.