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him.
    â€œSeidman was following her this morning,” he went on. “That’s what he was doing in that nearsighted geek’s office.”
    â€œI’ll tell Shelly you send him your best,” I said sincerely.
    Phil didn’t answer. He just stared at me with brown, wet eyes, his lower lip pushing out.
    â€œThe Secret Service doesn’t tell us anything. The FBI doesn’t tell us anything,” he continued. “It came to us from the mayor’s office, straight in here. I’m responsible. I’m on the line. I don’t think they can take captain away from me, but they can make me the captain of canned shit if this gets screwed up.”
    â€œWell put,” I said.
    â€œSo,” he said, evenly bouncing his fists on the desk, “I’m going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer the questions. You are not going to play games because you know what I can do to people who play games. You remember Italian Mack?”
    I didn’t want to remember what Phil had done to Italian Mack. What he had done to Italian Mack had probably kept him a lieutenant for an extra three years.
    â€œAsk,” I said, back to the wall.
    â€œWhat the hell is the president’s wife doing coming to your office?”
    I couldn’t stop it. It came out of the little kid who lives inside me and doesn’t give a final damn about my bruised and broken body. “Looking for campaign contributions from leading citizens,” I said. But I overcame the kid and before Phil could get out from behind the desk. I soothed, “Wait, wait, hold on. She had a job for me.”
    He stopped halfway around the desk. From beyond his door, a single voice shrieked out in Spanish, “No lo hice, por Dios .” Phil didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œWhat kind of job could you do for her that the FBI, the Secret Service, and the L.A. police couldn’t do?” he asked. It was a reasonable question.
    â€œFind a dog,” I said. “I swear, find a dog. A friend of hers in Los Angeles, Jack Warner’s wife, lost her dog. Mrs. Roosevelt promised to help her find it but she can’t go to you or the FBI on a personal thing like this. She’s had enough crap in the papers and on the radio without having people say she’s using the government’s time and money to find lost pets for big campaign donors.”
    It sounded kind of reasonable and was a little bit true at the same time. I don’t know where it came from, but I heard it coming out of me when I needed it. It was usually like that. I was one hell of an on-the-spot liar. It was what every good private detective had to be in a world of liars. Phil, on the other hand, was a lousy liar. He didn’t have to lie. He had a cop’s badge and the gun that went with it.
    â€œWhy you?” he asked, pausing, his head cocked to the side.
    â€œYou know I used to work for Warner’s. They throw me business once in a while.”
    â€œWarner would have had the gulls going for your liver if he had his way,” Phil said. “He hates your face.”
    â€œWe have an understanding,” I lied. “I did some work for him a few years back and—”
    â€œToby, how much of this is horseshit?” His hand slammed down on the desk sending a spray of pencils flying from the clay cup his son Nate had made for him five years ago. Beyond the closed door the Mexican guy seemed to be whimpering in sympathy for me.
    â€œAbout half,” I said honestly, which was a lie. “Phil, it’s nothing, a missing dog, a two-bit case. No scandal, no politics, no danger for the First Lady, just a lost dog. I said I’d keep it quiet, but, okay, call Mrs. Warner, check it out. I promised I wouldn’t tell, but the hell with it. Check it out. I need the few bucks. It’s either look for a lost pooch or do the night guard shift at a defense plant, and you know how I hate uniforms.”
    Phil