Read Online A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart - Free Book Online Page B

Everything's set up.”
    “We need this perfect. Make sure you've got Scott Thomas's statement in writing and signed.”
    Tinelle grinned again. “Done.”
    “Good.” Cedris picked up his bagel and folded it neatly inside the waxed paper. “I'm on my way.”

CHAPTER 9
    The hotel dining room went up more than out, giving its customers the experience of dining at the bottom of an ornate air shaft. For a height of three stories, a checkerboard of oil paintings stepped through gold-leafed plaster filigree, finally reaching an abrupt end at the foot of the mezzanine balcony. Above the balcony and centered over the dining room hung a tremendous gold chandelier, shimmering with hundreds of teardrop crystals.
    Sitting at a table against the outside wall of this space, his coal-black fingers spread out on white linen like the sharp and flat keys on a piano, was an old bluesman named Cannonball Walker. His head was turned toward the plate glass next to his shoulder; his eyes scanned the sidewalks. People hurried along either side of moving traffic. Occasionally some brave and hurried soul broke loose from the throng to stutter-step through bumpers and blaring horns.
    Only one dark form stood as still as death—a young man with shark's eyes and discolored skin that shone like wax in the cold winter light. Cannonball Walker sat and watched the young stranger watch him.
    “Mr. Walker?”
    Walker started slightly and turned to see Scott Thomas's lady friend standing beside his table.
    “My name is Kate Billings. Scott Thomas is a friend of mine.”
    Walker rose to his feet and nodded. “Remember you from the club.” He held out a hand toward the chair opposite his. “Have a seat.” As they both sat, Walker said, “I was watching for you out the window. Didn't see you come up.”
    “I drove.”
    He nodded again and glanced out at the watcher. Walker's eyes dropped and scanned the tablecloth. “Well, Kate.” He picked up a stemmed glass and took a sip of water. “What can I do for you? You want me to listen to a homemade CD shows you the next Billie Holiday? Or is it you know some big-busted lady of color who needs a date?”
    Kate Billings picked up her napkin, folded it lengthwise from corner to corner, forming a perfect triangle, and draped it over her thigh. She began to straighten the stainless flatware as she spoke. “Mr. Walker . . .”
    “Call me Canon.”
    She smiled. “Not Cannonball?”
    The old man smiled back. “Street name. Canon's my Christian name.”
    “Okay, Canon. I came here to tell you that Scott's in trouble. Serious trouble.” Something about the old man's expression made Kate stop short. “You already know about this, don't you?”
    “No. Not really.”
    Kate knew the male animal. For better or worse, she'd been the beneficiary of an early education in the simpleminded sex-food-work agenda of the hairier gender. And this man, this old bluesman from down South, knew more than he was telling. She tried again. “But you're not surprised.”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    Walker studied Kate's young face. “Can't say. Just thinkin' about the first time I saw the boy. That's all.”
    “What's that mean?”
    Walker shrugged.
    “Look, this is serious. Scott's mixed up in a murder at the hospital. You need to tell me what you know. If you call yourself Scott's friend . . .”
    “I don't.”
    Kate sat up straight in her chair. “You don't what?”
    “Don't call myself Scott's friend.” The old man turned sideways in the chair and stretched his legs. “You know, he seems like a good boy. Smart. Tryin' to do right. I like him fine. But a
friend
ain't somebody you've met twice in your life. Not unless the friend is good lookin' and female. Men take a little longer.”
    “Then you're not interested in helping Scott?”
    “Didn't say that, either. Just said he wasn't what I'd call a friend.” He paused. “What's he need? Bail money? A lawyer? Somebody to get him out of town?”
    This wasn't going