Read Online Alone by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Tags: Suspense
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distraction when one’s mind was racing with Greta Garbo. But there was no sign of the Swedish Sphinx on any of the movie channels and he switched off the TV and cable box. He drank a second glass of wine and went to bed.
A high-pitched whine sat him straight up in dead blackness. He turned on the bedside lamp and peered at the alarm clock; 3:16 A.M. He got up, groped with his feet for his slippers, climbed into his robe, and stepped through the door to find every room in the house ablaze with light. He followed the noise into the kitchen.
Broadhead stood at the counter with his back to the door, holding the top on an old green blender with one hand. He wore his cap and a shabby blue caftan streaked with purple that covered him to his feet. The blender was gyrating maniacally and sounded like a jet plane taking off.
Valentino shouted twice, but got no reaction. He crossed the room and touched Broadhead’s shoulder. The professor jumped, saw him, and turned off the blender. The noise took nearly a minute to wind down.
“Did I wake you? I warned you about my nocturnal habits.”
“What are you making?”
“I’m not sure. It started out to be a margarita, but I left that behind when I threw in the eggplant. Nightcap?” He took off the top.
“It’s more like breakfast. No, thanks. Do you do this every morning?”
“Sometimes I make chili fries.”
“With a margarita?”
“I don’t recommend it. Last time it took me forty minutes to clean out the microwave. Of course, I drank the margarita before I made the fries.”
“How was rollerblading?”
“Turns out she was kidding about that. We had a nice dinner and went to the movie. Fanta thought the Odessa Steps sequence was better than when DiPalma swiped it for The Untouchables.” He took a frosted stemmed glass out of the freezer and poured the mixture into it. It was beige, with aubergine bits floating on top.
“You went straight to dinner? You had a taco just before you left the house.”
“I told you, I eat when I’m hungry. Some days I gorge all day long, then fast for a week. I sleep the same way. You would too, if you ever spent time in a Yugoslavian prison.”
“Someday maybe you’ll tell me that whole story.”
“Someday’s today. Grab a glass from the cupboard, will you? You can have this one.” He held it out.
“Rain check. I’m going back to bed.”
“Suit yourself. I only get the urge to tell the story once every five years.”
Sleep was slow to return. At one point a whirring noise forced him to turn over onto his stomach and bury his head under his pillow. It sounded like the ventilation fan of a microwave oven.
**
Monday morning he made a detour to The Oracle before work. He was gratified to find the door open and pickups and cars belonging to construction workers parked in the alley. The sight of another vehicle caused his chest to tighten: a green sedan with the county seal on the door in gold.
A red Vespa scooter he didn’t recognize leaned on its kick-stand near the door. He had to walk around it to enter. Inside the lobby, relief washed through him. Leo Kalishnikov was there in person.
The theater designer was dressed conservatively by his standards, in a fawn-colored western-style suit with embroidery and black snakeskin cowboy boots. Their three-inch heels and the tall crown of his white ten-gallon hat brought him up to about five and a half feet. He was in conversation with a man in coveralls and a yellow hard hat who had to stoop to look him in the eye; Kalishnikov seldom raised his head to speak with anyone, no matter how tall. All around them, men and one woman stood on ladders, bent over sawhorses, and tested power tools. The sounds they made, so similar to the ones that had disturbed his sleep, were music now.
“Mr. Valentino! Come, come!” The designer beckoned with a hand in a deerskin glove.
Valentino
A high-pitched whine sat him straight up in dead blackness. He turned on the bedside lamp and peered at the alarm clock; 3:16 A.M. He got up, groped with his feet for his slippers, climbed into his robe, and stepped through the door to find every room in the house ablaze with light. He followed the noise into the kitchen.
Broadhead stood at the counter with his back to the door, holding the top on an old green blender with one hand. He wore his cap and a shabby blue caftan streaked with purple that covered him to his feet. The blender was gyrating maniacally and sounded like a jet plane taking off.
Valentino shouted twice, but got no reaction. He crossed the room and touched Broadhead’s shoulder. The professor jumped, saw him, and turned off the blender. The noise took nearly a minute to wind down.
“Did I wake you? I warned you about my nocturnal habits.”
“What are you making?”
“I’m not sure. It started out to be a margarita, but I left that behind when I threw in the eggplant. Nightcap?” He took off the top.
“It’s more like breakfast. No, thanks. Do you do this every morning?”
“Sometimes I make chili fries.”
“With a margarita?”
“I don’t recommend it. Last time it took me forty minutes to clean out the microwave. Of course, I drank the margarita before I made the fries.”
“How was rollerblading?”
“Turns out she was kidding about that. We had a nice dinner and went to the movie. Fanta thought the Odessa Steps sequence was better than when DiPalma swiped it for The Untouchables.” He took a frosted stemmed glass out of the freezer and poured the mixture into it. It was beige, with aubergine bits floating on top.
“You went straight to dinner? You had a taco just before you left the house.”
“I told you, I eat when I’m hungry. Some days I gorge all day long, then fast for a week. I sleep the same way. You would too, if you ever spent time in a Yugoslavian prison.”
“Someday maybe you’ll tell me that whole story.”
“Someday’s today. Grab a glass from the cupboard, will you? You can have this one.” He held it out.
“Rain check. I’m going back to bed.”
“Suit yourself. I only get the urge to tell the story once every five years.”
Sleep was slow to return. At one point a whirring noise forced him to turn over onto his stomach and bury his head under his pillow. It sounded like the ventilation fan of a microwave oven.
**
Monday morning he made a detour to The Oracle before work. He was gratified to find the door open and pickups and cars belonging to construction workers parked in the alley. The sight of another vehicle caused his chest to tighten: a green sedan with the county seal on the door in gold.
A red Vespa scooter he didn’t recognize leaned on its kick-stand near the door. He had to walk around it to enter. Inside the lobby, relief washed through him. Leo Kalishnikov was there in person.
The theater designer was dressed conservatively by his standards, in a fawn-colored western-style suit with embroidery and black snakeskin cowboy boots. Their three-inch heels and the tall crown of his white ten-gallon hat brought him up to about five and a half feet. He was in conversation with a man in coveralls and a yellow hard hat who had to stoop to look him in the eye; Kalishnikov seldom raised his head to speak with anyone, no matter how tall. All around them, men and one woman stood on ladders, bent over sawhorses, and tested power tools. The sounds they made, so similar to the ones that had disturbed his sleep, were music now.
“Mr. Valentino! Come, come!” The designer beckoned with a hand in a deerskin glove.
Valentino
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