Chapter 3.

I had spent the first day of my service in the employ of Roger Mayfield gathering rosebuds,

which was my way of saying that I was putting together a laundry list of information with which

I could answer the nearly inevitable question of exactly what in the hell I had been doing

all this time.

It wasn't bad looking, really.

Put together with the assistance of Sergeant Ted Holm down at robbery homicide who owed me a favor and my old pal

Freddy the Finger Hawthorne who owed me more than a few. It was a list of known dirt bags within

the city and environs with the requisite photographic skills who had a tendency to lean towards

blackmail. The capsule reviews of each man's dossier included his police record, last known location,

bodice apparandi, and any special proclivities or peccadillos in which he might specialize.

It was all good stuff and looked like it might have taken several days to put together,

which was nice because all told it had taken about two and a half hours. See,

in reality, there wasn't a heck of a lot I could do for Roger Mayfield as things stood, try though

I might. The ball was in somebody else's court. When the blackmail campaign stepped up, I would be

there. But it was entirely possible that this mysterious friend would sit quietly for some days

and let him stew in his own juices.

And if I wish to still be gainfully employed when said scumbag got off the pot,

I had better look like I had been doing something.

In reality, of course, the list was useless.

Oh, it was accurate.

And there was even a chance, if only a chance, that one of the two dozen men it profiled would turn out to be the guilty party.

...