Read Online 1975 - Night of the Juggler by William P. McGivern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William P. McGivern
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wearing a quilted red robe and matching slippers, his resentment ebbed at the sight of her rosy, pretty features and her long blond hair which, released from its ponytail, fell smoothly down to her shoulders. While she came over and sat on his knee, he smiled appraisingly at her, judging her points, the soft line of her developing bosom, the good, square shoulders and coltishly slim legs, as he might assess the qualities of a thoroughbred filly. “Well, Miss Katherine Jackson Boyd, let’s see you hollow out your back,” he said.
She smiled at him and sucked in her stomach, squared her shoulders, and put her hands together on the pommel of an imaginary horse.
“How’s this, Daddy?”
“Blue ribbon,” he said, and she relaxed and snuggled herself into his arms.
“Could we talk about Buddy now?” she asked him.
“Do you remember your grandfather, Kate?”
“Just that he was tall and had white hair. And he told me to lean forward and grab my pony’s mane to help him when we were going up a hill.”
Boyd smiled faintly. “Anything else?”
“Well, he always smelled of Pears soap and tobacco.”
“I admired him because, above all, he was fair,” Boyd said. “And I’ve tried to be like him. So I believe we should talk about Buddy sometime when your mother is here. That’s the fairest way to make you understand.”
She sighed and snuggled into his arms.
“But I don’t think she’s being fair,” she said.
“Hush now,” he said and patted her shoulder gently.
And Katherine Jackson Boyd rested in her father’s arms, physically safe and secure and privileged in their electronically guarded apartment building high above the mean streets and alleys where Gus Soltik was looking for a kitten.
Chapter 5
Samantha Spade stood looking out a tenement window in Spanish Harlem, while a pair of her enforcers—black professional muscle, Biggie Lewis and Coke Roosevelt—were systematically and unemotionally smothering a young Puerto Rican boy, Manolo Ramos, who was delinquent by six hundred and ninety dollars in his payments to Samantha, a statuesque black Shylock, whose turf embraced much of Harlem from river to river and south of 125th Street. Samantha was tall, five eleven in white leather boots, with classically chiseled features and wide, luminous eyes, which she enlarged in a startling and almost comic fashion with heavy black liner and silver-white eye shadow. She wore a high-crowned dome-shaped red velvet hat and a flared leather coat over a black denim pants suit, which glittered with sequins forming clusters of patriotic designs, stars and eagles and shoulder patches from the old glory outfits, the 182nd Airborne Division, and the Fourth Infantry, the Ivy Division.
The room was small and filthy and smelled of drains.
Coke Roosevelt and Biggie Lewis were large, powerful young men who amused themselves by dressing with piratical flourishes; they wore silver earrings, Aussie digger hats, tight leather suits with brilliant scarlet kerchiefs wound around their powerfully muscled throats.
With effortless ease, they held young Manolo’s writhing figure on a narrow bed, twisting his slim brown arms high up between his shoulder blades and pressing his curly head and pretty brown face deeply into a soiled and matted pillow.
“All right! That’s enough!” Samantha Spade said abruptly, and Coke Roosevelt and Biggie Lewis immediately released the boy, reacting like well-trained guard dogs to the thread of irritation in Samantha’s voice.
“Mother, Mother, don’t let them hurt me!” Manolo screamed at Samantha.
All this Samantha found degrading. You started with something clean, and while the interest was ball-breaking, they couldn’t go to banks, so they came to her. When they got behind and started hiding, you had to use muscle, or your work and reputation went down the drain.
“We didn’t advertise for you, Manolo.”
“It’s my brother,” Manolo said, barely whispering the words,
She smiled at him and sucked in her stomach, squared her shoulders, and put her hands together on the pommel of an imaginary horse.
“How’s this, Daddy?”
“Blue ribbon,” he said, and she relaxed and snuggled herself into his arms.
“Could we talk about Buddy now?” she asked him.
“Do you remember your grandfather, Kate?”
“Just that he was tall and had white hair. And he told me to lean forward and grab my pony’s mane to help him when we were going up a hill.”
Boyd smiled faintly. “Anything else?”
“Well, he always smelled of Pears soap and tobacco.”
“I admired him because, above all, he was fair,” Boyd said. “And I’ve tried to be like him. So I believe we should talk about Buddy sometime when your mother is here. That’s the fairest way to make you understand.”
She sighed and snuggled into his arms.
“But I don’t think she’s being fair,” she said.
“Hush now,” he said and patted her shoulder gently.
And Katherine Jackson Boyd rested in her father’s arms, physically safe and secure and privileged in their electronically guarded apartment building high above the mean streets and alleys where Gus Soltik was looking for a kitten.
Chapter 5
Samantha Spade stood looking out a tenement window in Spanish Harlem, while a pair of her enforcers—black professional muscle, Biggie Lewis and Coke Roosevelt—were systematically and unemotionally smothering a young Puerto Rican boy, Manolo Ramos, who was delinquent by six hundred and ninety dollars in his payments to Samantha, a statuesque black Shylock, whose turf embraced much of Harlem from river to river and south of 125th Street. Samantha was tall, five eleven in white leather boots, with classically chiseled features and wide, luminous eyes, which she enlarged in a startling and almost comic fashion with heavy black liner and silver-white eye shadow. She wore a high-crowned dome-shaped red velvet hat and a flared leather coat over a black denim pants suit, which glittered with sequins forming clusters of patriotic designs, stars and eagles and shoulder patches from the old glory outfits, the 182nd Airborne Division, and the Fourth Infantry, the Ivy Division.
The room was small and filthy and smelled of drains.
Coke Roosevelt and Biggie Lewis were large, powerful young men who amused themselves by dressing with piratical flourishes; they wore silver earrings, Aussie digger hats, tight leather suits with brilliant scarlet kerchiefs wound around their powerfully muscled throats.
With effortless ease, they held young Manolo’s writhing figure on a narrow bed, twisting his slim brown arms high up between his shoulder blades and pressing his curly head and pretty brown face deeply into a soiled and matted pillow.
“All right! That’s enough!” Samantha Spade said abruptly, and Coke Roosevelt and Biggie Lewis immediately released the boy, reacting like well-trained guard dogs to the thread of irritation in Samantha’s voice.
“Mother, Mother, don’t let them hurt me!” Manolo screamed at Samantha.
All this Samantha found degrading. You started with something clean, and while the interest was ball-breaking, they couldn’t go to banks, so they came to her. When they got behind and started hiding, you had to use muscle, or your work and reputation went down the drain.
“We didn’t advertise for you, Manolo.”
“It’s my brother,” Manolo said, barely whispering the words,
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