Read Online A Killer in the Rye by Delia Rosen - Free Book Online

bagels.”
    Confused, the alien purchases one and takes a bite. The alien’s eyes grow wide. “Wow!” he says to the baker. “These would go great with cream cheese and lox!”
    Uncle Murray was a card. But it was an ace. Thinking of Officer McCoy made me miss my own support circle, of which Murray was a big part, especially after my folks died.
    â€œNumber forty-nine? Forty-nine?”
    â€œHere!” I made my way to the display case filled with pastries and rolls.
    â€œHow can I help you?”
    â€œBrenda’s not in today, is she?”
    â€œNegative. She’s dealing with some personal stuff.”
    â€œMay I speak with a manager?”
    â€œWe don’t have one, really. I mean, you may have heard what happened?”
    â€œYes, I’m sorry.”
    â€œYeah, so it’s just me and Eric today, and he’s back there baking right now.”
    â€œYou gonna order?” someone behind me asked.
    â€œGive me a bagel with schmear,” I said.
    â€œWith what?”
    â€œCream cheese.”
    â€œWhat kind of bagel?”
    â€œRaisin.”
    â€œWe only have plain and onion.”
    Of course you do. “Plain,” I said.
    â€œHow is Brenda taking all this?” I asked.
    â€œBad,” he said as he sliced the bagel.
    â€œUnderstandable. It happened during a delivery?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAt a deli, I heard.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWho do you think is responsible?”
    The kid finished spreading a thin, gentile layer of cream cheese and started wrapping the bagel in tinfoil—not wax paper. “I don’t know,” he said.
    â€œWhat does Brenda think?”
    â€œThat’ll be a dollar fifty,” he said.
    I gave him a credit card to buy some time. I heard a groan from the small group behind me.
    â€œI don’t know what she thinks,” the boy said as he waited for the receipt to print. “All I know is I went looking for the meat cleaver yesterday to divvy the dough and it was gone. I mentioned it to her, and she said not to worry about it.”
    â€œReally? Where do you think it went?”
    He put the receipt on the counter with a pen. He was looking at me a little funny.
    â€œI think she took it for protection,” he said. “I think she’s nervous.”
    â€œLady, you’re gonna need protection if you don’t sign the goddamn bill!” someone shouted.
    So much for kind and patient Nashvillians. I signed.
    â€œSay, do I know you?” the kid asked suddenly.
    â€œNo,” I replied.
    â€œYes,” he disagreed. “I saw you on TV this morning.”
    â€œThat isn’t exactly knowing—”
    â€œYou were on the news.”
    â€œHey, you watch TV?” I said. “I was under the impression kids watched everything on their cell phones.”
    â€œIt was on in the back room,” he said. “Yeah, you were on with Candy Sommerton.”
    â€œNo,” I said. Truth was, I was on Candy Sommerton. I turned to find myself blocked in by five cross-looking patrons. I started to push my way through.
    â€œYes,” the boy said. “You were on the sidewalk. She was yelling at you!”
    â€œThat was some other deli owner,” I said, then swore. I was nearly at the door, but I had forgotten my bagel. It wasn’t that I needed it or even wanted it; I had to have it. Just to make a statement that no mob was going to push me around. I started digging my way back. Old Man Number Fifty was asking to be served now. He scowled at me as I thrust an arm in front of him to grab the paper bag. I glowered right back.
    You don’t mess with a New Yorker. And that’s what I was, wherever I happened to be living.
    As I walked back toward Murray’s, I stopped at a convenience store and bought myself a fresh pack of Natural American Spirits. I tore the cellophane off, pulled one out, and lit a match.
    Glowering? Walking the streets?