Read Online A Fine Specimen by Lisa Marie Rice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Marie Rice
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people sitting listlessly on the steps, a bottle
between their legs, staring indifferently at the few cars that drove by.
Riverhead had twice the
number of reported crimes as the rest of Baylorville, but the real figure was
much higher. Most of the crimes went unreported, for the simple reason that
most of the victims were criminals themselves. There was, on average, a murder
every three days, two rapes a week, four muggings a day and countless episodes
of domestic violence. About four million dollars in drugs changed hands every
day.
Then again, drug dealing
was just about the only viable economic activity in the neighborhood.
The life expectancy of
Riverhead residents was thirty years less than that of the residents of the
rest of the city, and for a good reason. If you lived here, you were poor and
either a drug addict or an alcoholic, maybe even both. Either that or you were
married to one or your parents were in the life. There was almost no hope of
escape from here except feet first in a coffin, which happened to a
statistically significant portion of the teenagers in Riverhead.
Alex had grown up
here—six blocks down and an alley over from the Carlton, actually. Even what
had passed for his family—a drunk of a mother and a drug-addict father—had
grown up here. Riverhead was in his genes. He’d been destined from birth to
live here and to die here. His fate was to end up like the other lost souls in
Riverhead—to live fast, die young and leave a big stain.
Thank God for Ray.
Alex remembered the
Carlton from his misspent youth. The Carlton was where businessmen from the
downtown area used to take the young, easy women of Riverhead for an hour on
their lunch break for a quick fuck.
No mistresses down here
in Riverhead, no fancy ladies set up in luxury flats, no expensive call girls.
The women here were lucky to get ten bucks for a blowjob in a car, maybe twenty
for a longer session in the Carlton, which helpfully rented by the hour.
A few years ago, there
had been a fleeting interest in cleaning up Riverhead. The Carlton had been
painted and the roof repaired, just enough of an effort to make it look like a
semi-respectable hotel. But now the paint was peeling again and Alex suspected
that it was being used for things more dangerous than a little illicit love.
He parked directly in
front of the entrance, figuring that the dim glow cast by the entrance porch
light might be enough to keep the scumbags from boosting his hubcaps for, oh,
maybe fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.
Alex killed the engine.
“Welcome to the Ritz,” he said dryly, looking over at Caitlin. She’d been very
quiet on the trip out, watching out the window as the scenery grew danker and
grimmer.
Shit, she was so fucking
out of place here. Right now, in the uncertain light of the flickering lamp
over the Carlton’s entrance, she looked twelve and helpless. In some parts of
the world that was a guarantee of safety, but not here. Not in Riverhead. Here,
what she signaled was— come and get me .
“It isn’t much, is it?”
Caitlin said quietly.
Fuck no, it wasn’t.
Alex came around to the
passenger door and opened it. She stepped out onto the cracked pavement.
A bell echoed distantly
as Alex pushed down on the heavy brass handle of the hotel’s front door and
shouldered it open. He let Caitlin pass then followed her in. His disapproving
gaze took in the peeling wallpaper and cracked flooring.
His disapproval turned
to fury when he saw that the front desk was unattended, the keys hanging on a
plywood board.
“What’s your room
number?” he murmured to Caitlin.
“Four forty-six,” she
replied. “Why?”
Alex reached across the
front desk and lifted her key from its hook. He pocketed it just as a
dark-skinned man with a stained turban came in from a side door, still chewing
something. The smell of curry wafted in from behind the door. The man’s polite
smile turned genuinely welcoming when he saw Caitlin. “Ah, Ms. Summers.
between their legs, staring indifferently at the few cars that drove by.
Riverhead had twice the
number of reported crimes as the rest of Baylorville, but the real figure was
much higher. Most of the crimes went unreported, for the simple reason that
most of the victims were criminals themselves. There was, on average, a murder
every three days, two rapes a week, four muggings a day and countless episodes
of domestic violence. About four million dollars in drugs changed hands every
day.
Then again, drug dealing
was just about the only viable economic activity in the neighborhood.
The life expectancy of
Riverhead residents was thirty years less than that of the residents of the
rest of the city, and for a good reason. If you lived here, you were poor and
either a drug addict or an alcoholic, maybe even both. Either that or you were
married to one or your parents were in the life. There was almost no hope of
escape from here except feet first in a coffin, which happened to a
statistically significant portion of the teenagers in Riverhead.
Alex had grown up
here—six blocks down and an alley over from the Carlton, actually. Even what
had passed for his family—a drunk of a mother and a drug-addict father—had
grown up here. Riverhead was in his genes. He’d been destined from birth to
live here and to die here. His fate was to end up like the other lost souls in
Riverhead—to live fast, die young and leave a big stain.
Thank God for Ray.
Alex remembered the
Carlton from his misspent youth. The Carlton was where businessmen from the
downtown area used to take the young, easy women of Riverhead for an hour on
their lunch break for a quick fuck.
No mistresses down here
in Riverhead, no fancy ladies set up in luxury flats, no expensive call girls.
The women here were lucky to get ten bucks for a blowjob in a car, maybe twenty
for a longer session in the Carlton, which helpfully rented by the hour.
A few years ago, there
had been a fleeting interest in cleaning up Riverhead. The Carlton had been
painted and the roof repaired, just enough of an effort to make it look like a
semi-respectable hotel. But now the paint was peeling again and Alex suspected
that it was being used for things more dangerous than a little illicit love.
He parked directly in
front of the entrance, figuring that the dim glow cast by the entrance porch
light might be enough to keep the scumbags from boosting his hubcaps for, oh,
maybe fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.
Alex killed the engine.
“Welcome to the Ritz,” he said dryly, looking over at Caitlin. She’d been very
quiet on the trip out, watching out the window as the scenery grew danker and
grimmer.
Shit, she was so fucking
out of place here. Right now, in the uncertain light of the flickering lamp
over the Carlton’s entrance, she looked twelve and helpless. In some parts of
the world that was a guarantee of safety, but not here. Not in Riverhead. Here,
what she signaled was— come and get me .
“It isn’t much, is it?”
Caitlin said quietly.
Fuck no, it wasn’t.
Alex came around to the
passenger door and opened it. She stepped out onto the cracked pavement.
A bell echoed distantly
as Alex pushed down on the heavy brass handle of the hotel’s front door and
shouldered it open. He let Caitlin pass then followed her in. His disapproving
gaze took in the peeling wallpaper and cracked flooring.
His disapproval turned
to fury when he saw that the front desk was unattended, the keys hanging on a
plywood board.
“What’s your room
number?” he murmured to Caitlin.
“Four forty-six,” she
replied. “Why?”
Alex reached across the
front desk and lifted her key from its hook. He pocketed it just as a
dark-skinned man with a stained turban came in from a side door, still chewing
something. The smell of curry wafted in from behind the door. The man’s polite
smile turned genuinely welcoming when he saw Caitlin. “Ah, Ms. Summers.
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