Read Online A Garden of Vipers by Jack Kerley - Free Book Online

Harry to a draw.
    â€œWhat happened to Papa Kincannon?” I asked.
    â€œBuck Senior? I haven’t heard much about him. He has some form of mental ailment, early-onset Alzheimer’s or something similar, a disease of the brain. He’s alive, but has been out of the picture for years.”
    â€œHe started the fortune?”
    â€œHe had a mind for business. An instinct or whatever.”
    â€œYou know a lot about the family, Dani.”
    She looked away. “I’m a reporter and they’re a major investor in my company.”
    â€œWhere’s Kincannon’s wife?”
    â€œHe’s single. Divorced years ago.”
    â€œHave you ever met him?”
    Dani studied her wineglass, drained it. “I met him at a charity event eighteen months back.”
    â€œYou talked to him since?”
    She passed me her glass. “Could you get me another, please? While I climb back into these shoes.”
    Rather than cross the center of the room, where I might remeet someone I’d already forgotten, I moved to the shadowed edges and circled toward the nearest bar. My path took me behind the clan Kincannon. The Buckster was still working the receiving line, his hand squeezed by men, cheeks pecked by women.
    Mama Maylene was another matter: It seemed forbidden to touch her, and even the most hand-grabbing, hug-enwrapping, cheek-kissing folks stopped short of Mama, offering a few brief words before quickly slipping past.
    When not engaged in long-distance greetings, Maylene Kincannon raked the crowd with emotionless eyes, black as cinders in the whiteness of her face. I watched in fascination as they gathered full measure of the room, every face, every gesture, every contact.
    Perhaps she felt my gaze, and her eyes swung to mine. For a moment we stared at one another, until her eyes moved away, restless, scanning. I had the feeling of having been surveyed by a machine, deemed of zero value, dismissed.
    There was a crowd at the bar and I got in one of the lines. My position faced me down a service hall to a kitchen door. Surprisingly—and delightfully—a woman’s derriere backed from the kitchen, wiggling as it retreated. The owner followed, throwing air kisses and whispering thanks. I suspected she was a late arrival not wishing to enter via the cascading steps and glare of lights.
    I put her age in the early thirties, slender where she needed to be, ample where she didn’t, big lavender eyes augmented with too much shadow, perhaps trying to balance a succulent, lipsticked mouth. Her dress was cobalt blue, strapless, anchored by ample breasts whose originality was dubious.
    â€œWhatcha need, sir?” the barkeep asked.
    I reluctantly turned from the woman. “Tall bourbon and soda, light on the bourbon, and a white wine.”
    â€œWe have three whites tonight, sir. A Belden Farms Chardonnay, a B & G Vouvray, and a Chenin Blanc by Isenger.”
    I knew wine as well as I knew Mandarin. I said uh several times.
    â€œGo for the Vouvray, Slim,” a woman’s voice said. “The others are horse piss.”
    I turned. The woman in cobalt leaned against the column at the end of the bar, a few feet distant. She winked. “Grab me a drink while you’re there, wouldya? Double scotch.” Her voice was a purr of command, cigarette husky, a voice with more years on it than the woman.
    I turned, three drinks in hand. She snatched hers and spun away. I watched her circle behind the crowd, pause against another column, study the surroundings. She belted the scotch. Then she snapped her wrist twice, like flicking paint from a brush. She thought a moment, then repeated the odd motion, more exaggerated this time, like cracking a whip.
    She flipped the empty glass into a trash can, snapped on a bright smile, and headed into the crowded room. My eyes kept following her derriere, but the room went dark.
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    Lucas arrived a half hour after the Channel 14 soiree had