I’m running out of easy fixes, alas.
Hagen was the kind of guy who aimed for ‘dapper’ but landed in ‘fussy:’ he had brown hair oiled to precision and his mustache hairs were individually groomed. “Thank you.” He talked like somebody who took classes to hide his childhood accent, which I was pegging as being either Tourista or Hawaii. Either would make sense; getting out of the slums is incentive for a lot of people.
“I understand that you’re involved in the Arenque murder?” he said.
I blinked. “You asking if I’m investigating it, or I did it? — Because either way, the answer’s no. Who’s Arenque?”
That actually startled Hagen, to the point where he was scratching his chest in no little confusion. “Ah. Carmine Arenque Fogg. He was found murdered this morning? In an alley?”
“Oh, right. Him. Like I said, I’m not on that one.” I gave Hagen a slightly vague look. “You got anything on that, you should go talk to the cops. Maybe they can solve it before I get sucked in. I hate investigating murders in alleys.”
Hagen still looked confused, but he recovered pretty quick. “My apologies, Mr. Vargas. Clearly I was given incorrect information. Sorry to bother you.” He stood up.
I smiled at him, while not rising. “Not at all, Mr. Hagen. As I said: the door was open. Was there anything else I could help you with?”
“Not at this time, Mr. Vargas. Not at this time. Have a good afternoon.” And with that, he left.
I gave it a sixty second count before I shoved the small club in my lap back into the sling under my desk. I hadn’t been sure if Hagen had been reaching for an envelope full of bribe money, or just a flashy dagger. Probably the latter: he had that look. I would have hit him either way, mind you. You don’t bribe Shamuses.