Writer-for-hire Rick Grant takes on a lapsed-donor case

By Richard Deveau

My name is Rick Grant, writer for hire.

I was in my office with my feet on the desk. I had poured a second cup of coffee from a fresh pot, and it was warming my hands. I drink a lot of coffee. What can I say? I'm a wordslinger. It's a living. It pays for the coffee.

I was brooding over my last case. It was an acquisition job. I had written a direct-mail package that beat the control by 165 percent, and the client never said a word. No "wow." No "thank you." Not a peep.

I was staring out the window, watching the rain rivulets race each other down the pane, when I heard the knock.

"It's open."

She breezed in like she was floating on a cloud. Her heels were that high. She was wearing a dark business suit, white blouse and carrying a burgundy briefcase under her arm. Her red hair was pulled back into a tasteful bun. She had a thin, sharp face, like a runway model. She closed the door and turned to me with a hard eye.

"You Rick?"

"And proud of it," I said.

She looked at me aggressively and didn't say anything. I smiled pleasantly. I was beginning to feel like my hero, Spenser. Well, more like his creator, the late Robert B. Parker.

"You being a wise guy?"

"Only for a moment," I said.

"I don't like this," she said.

"Well, it's a start."

"And I don't like funny either," she said.

"That's OK. I'm not always this funny."

She glided into my guest chair.

"My name's Denise Doherty."

"I love alliteration."

"What?"

"There I go again."

"Look, mister, if you don't want my business just say so."