"Some agent wanting me to sign off on, let me guess, granola bars? Vanilla yogurt?" I asked.
"No, Mr. Morris," he said.
"Look, Mr. Smith, I don't remember meeting you." I flung the towel over my shoulders and hung on to the ends with both hands.
"Mr. Morris, I'm a private investigator," he said. "You hired me to find your sister."
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with a clean corner of the towel. "Oh, right. I didn't recognize you. Thought you wore glasses." I looked at the business card he had handed me and recognized the name of his company. "You gotta admit that 'Matt Smith' sounds like a fake name. Though, I
suppose fake names are helpful in a business like yours."
"Yes, fake names can be helpful," the private investigator said.
"You really spent 10 years working missing persons in Arizona?" I looked the average man up and down. "You don't look more than, what, 30?"
"I'm older than I look. After Arizona, I retired. Worked as a bail bondsman. Finding people is a special knack I have. Now, I work on referral only. Kevin Casey gave you my number and here we are," Matt Smith said.
"Do I even want to know what my slime ball manager needed a private investigator for?" I asked.
"Like I said, I specialize in finding people." He shrugged and said no more.
"Yeah, well, whatever you did, you impressed him. And, I'm assuming I can expect the same level of nondisclosure?" I asked.
"As I told Mr. Casey outside, I have no reason to discuss my work with people who are not involved."
I hopped from one foot to the other. My legs were cramping, and instead of talking, I should have been stretching. I considered asking the private investigator to wait while I cooled down. He probably would have shrugged his shoulders and waited with the same unreadable calm expression on his face.
"I understand if you've changed your mind," he said. "As long as my retainer is paid, there is no reason you need to know information you no longer find valuable."
"I've got your valuable information right here," my young sparring partner yelled. "You broke my nose and that is a fact. A fact I'm sure the police are going to want to know."
"The police will be interested in knowing an MMA fighter broke your nose while you willingly sparred with him?" Matt Smith asked.
The young kid scowled behind his wads of gauze. "Yeah, it's funny, but just wait until you say something he doesn't want to hear."
Matt Smith stepped back as the kid reenacted the entire fight. When it came to the kick to the sternum, the kid got too into his acting and the wads of gauze blew out of his nose on to the ground. I laughed as the kid swiped them up before stalking away.
"Sorry about that," I said. "What were you saying about my sister?"
"Look, if you're not ready to hear it, then just say so. You can always reach me at that number," the private investigator said and turned to go.
"No, don't listen to him. What, are you afraid I'm going to punch you?" I asked. "I keep my fighting in the ring."
"Except for that police officer," Matt Smith said.
"Of course, you would know about that."
"Good business practice to run background checks on my clients," he said. "Never know what trouble a client can be after the contract is signed. Best to know ahead of time."
"Speaking of knowing," I said. "You were going to tell me about my sister."
"Ah, yes, Ms. Dana Maria Morris. She is currently working in Las Vegas, though she does not have a permanent address." Matt pulled out a small black notebook.
"Then, how do you know she's here in Vegas?" I asked.
"I've, ah, been to her place of work."
"But she's gotta be sleeping somewhere. She got a man?" I asked.