Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

“Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type. The kind of person whose face you’d never remember. It’s never a teenage girl who’s blowing money.”

It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. “A teenager!”

“We’ve had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the maître d’ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others jibe. She’s bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shop in town, a dress at Chez Marie⁠—she passed three fifties there⁠—and a hat at Paulette’s over on Monroe Street.

“That’s another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a small item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl’s been buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in her change.”

“This doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You have any ideas at all?”

“The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that puts it in your lap again possibly⁠—”

The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, “Yeah? Steven Hackett speaking.”

He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Larry,” he snapped. “This is it.”

Larry stood, too. “Who was that?”

“Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let’s go!”

La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a city not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons in governmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more apt to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending money far beyond your obvious pay status.

Fredrick, the maître d’hôtel, however, was able to greet them both by name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn’t approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were picked up the authorities.

“Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room.

Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you didn’t expect to, ah, arrest the young lady here during our lunch hour?”

Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don’t exactly beat them over the head with blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the paddywagon.”

“Of course not, monsieur, but⁠—”

Larry Woolford’s chief dined here several times a week and was probably on the best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degree of servility had a good deal of influence on a man’s status in Greater Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is she?”

Fredrick had taken them to one side.

“Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rather gauche appearing type?”

It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in the attempt to project sophistication.

Steve said, “Do you know who she is?”

“No,” Fredrick said. “Hardly our usual clientele.”

“Oh?” Larry said. “She looks like money.”

Fredrick said, “The dress appears as though it is of Chez Marie, but she wears it as though it came from Klein’s. Her perfume is Chanel, but she has used approximately three times the quantity one would expect.”

“That’s our girl, all right,” Steve murmured. “Where can we keep an eye on her until she leaves?”

“Why not at the bar here, Messieurs?”

“Why not?” Larry said. “I could use a drink.”

Fredrick cleared his throat. “Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over you. I suppose it turned out to be spurious?”

Steve grinned at him. “Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it.”

Larry took out his wallet. “However, we have a certain leeway on expenses on this assignment and appreciate your cooperation.” He handed two twenties and a ten to the maître d’. Fredrick bowed low, the money disappearing into his clothes magically. “Merci bien, monsieur.”

At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that first? He’ll get down on his knees and bump his head each time he sees you in the joint from now on.”

Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status conscious town, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss’ job, maybe we can swing a transfer and I’ll give you a position suitable to your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Although, come to think of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you’re holding now.”

“Vodka martini,” Steve told the bartender. “Polish vodka, of course.”

“Of course, sir.”

Larry said, “Same for me.”

The bartender left and Steve muttered, “I hate vodka.”

“Yeah,” Larry said, “But what’re you going to do in a place like this, order some weird drink?”

Steve dug into his pocket for money. “We’re not going to have to drink them. Here she comes.”

She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring the peasants at the tables she passed.

“Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It’s a wonder Fredrick let her in.”

She hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurant allowing the passersby to realize she’d just emerged, and then turned to her right to promenade along the shopping street.

Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, “Let’s go, Woolford.”

One stepped to one elbow, the other to the other. Steve said quietly, “I wonder if we could ask you a few questions?”

Her eyebrows went up, “I beg your pardon!”

Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping it inconspicuous. “Secret Service, Miss,” he murmured.

“Oh, devil,” she said. She looked up at Larry Woolford, and then back at Steve.

Steve said, “Among other things, we’re in charge of counterfeit money.”

She was about five foot four in her heels, had obviously been on a round of beauty shops and had obviously instructed them to glamorize her. It hadn’t come off. She still looked as though she’d be more at home as cheerleader of the junior class in small town high school. She was honey blond, green-blue of eye, and had that complexion they seldom carry