Read Online American Detective: An Amos Walker Novel by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Ads: Link
something handy to push shut against a cancerous world, with bolts and latches and braces, and God help you if you came to it to ask for information, because it might come in the form of a forty-grain slug, fired by someone who was just a little more afraid than you were (see: swinging doors).
I’d stood in front of all of them at one time or another—behind them, too, in the case of the ones with bars—never without butterflies in my stomach, like a kid on his first Halloween; wondering if this was the Door To End All Doors, the one that would burst into yellow splinters and let a bullet tear into an organ I held dear.
This one, ordinary pine with an oak stain, felt something like that.
I didn’t expect a bullet, really. Nothing so final and clear-cut. It was just a clammy mounting dread that came with the cold call, the blind search, the random shot, and the conviction that once I laid bone against wood, whatever I found on the other side would change the case, and probably my life. I’d listened to that warning whisper once already that same day and had walked away from it, surprising myself; only to keep my appointment in Samarra anyway when the cops sprang their trap.
So maybe the destiny people knew what they were talking about, and all this dithering was just a waste of my time and the client’s money.
Nice pep rally. Give me a
W
.
I knocked. It opened. I didn’t even duck.
EIGHT
M r. Walker? My name is Mai. I’m Madame Sing’s personal assistant.”
She had a little trouble with her
r
s and
l
s, but since I don’t speak a second language myself I wasn’t making judgments. She was a small creature in the prime middle years—no wrinkles, just a mature hardness in the lines of her cheeks—with black hair skinned back into a bun behind her head, in a pale yellow blouse with the square tail out over formfitting black slacks, tiny unpainted feet in open-toed pumps without heels, five feet and ninety pounds stripped and soaking wet. It might have been her voice I’d heard over the telephone; I’d been fooled once and so didn’t jump to that conclusion.
“Am I early?”
“She’ll be out in a minute. Please come in.”
For all the chamber of commerce hysteria about a new hotel in town, it was just a two-room suite like most, with a sitting room and a larger bedroom beyond. There was a king-size bed, made up tight as a trampoline with a quilted, peach-colored spread, a white faux Queen Anne desk withbowlegs, a fax machine, and all the necessary twenty-first-century ports, upholstered chairs and love seats, and identical black twenty-seven-inch TVs in both rooms. Prints on the walls with scenes of the Detroit riverfront and Impressionistic daubs of the Fox and State theaters. Fresh flowers erupted out of tall vases and a complimentary fruit basket done up in gold-tinted cellophane with a card in an envelope no one had bothered to open. The drapes were open, with a fine view of Harmonie Park and beyond it the music hall. From this side of the tinted Plexiglas it looked like a picture postcard, no indication of the punishing heat and general dearth of people.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mai made a gracious openhanded gesture toward the minibar, a half-grown refrigerator with a microwave oven on top. I said a Coke would be great.
“Not something stronger?”
“Okay, Mountain Dew.”
She hesitated, smiling, eager to please. “You are a detective, yes? You drink rye, with a bourbon chaser. I learn my English from Turner Classic Movies,” she apologized.
I smiled. I wanted to wrap her up and set her on the mantel between the Balinese dancers. “Scotch, then. Do you have ice?”
“I can call down for some.”
“Let’s not bother them. They’re only getting half a week’s pay for one hour.”
She laughed, an adorable little tinkly giggle like ceramic skulls banging together, and broke the hundred-dollar seal on the refrigerator door. The little plastic bottle of Glenlivet took
I’d stood in front of all of them at one time or another—behind them, too, in the case of the ones with bars—never without butterflies in my stomach, like a kid on his first Halloween; wondering if this was the Door To End All Doors, the one that would burst into yellow splinters and let a bullet tear into an organ I held dear.
This one, ordinary pine with an oak stain, felt something like that.
I didn’t expect a bullet, really. Nothing so final and clear-cut. It was just a clammy mounting dread that came with the cold call, the blind search, the random shot, and the conviction that once I laid bone against wood, whatever I found on the other side would change the case, and probably my life. I’d listened to that warning whisper once already that same day and had walked away from it, surprising myself; only to keep my appointment in Samarra anyway when the cops sprang their trap.
So maybe the destiny people knew what they were talking about, and all this dithering was just a waste of my time and the client’s money.
Nice pep rally. Give me a
W
.
I knocked. It opened. I didn’t even duck.
EIGHT
M r. Walker? My name is Mai. I’m Madame Sing’s personal assistant.”
She had a little trouble with her
r
s and
l
s, but since I don’t speak a second language myself I wasn’t making judgments. She was a small creature in the prime middle years—no wrinkles, just a mature hardness in the lines of her cheeks—with black hair skinned back into a bun behind her head, in a pale yellow blouse with the square tail out over formfitting black slacks, tiny unpainted feet in open-toed pumps without heels, five feet and ninety pounds stripped and soaking wet. It might have been her voice I’d heard over the telephone; I’d been fooled once and so didn’t jump to that conclusion.
“Am I early?”
“She’ll be out in a minute. Please come in.”
For all the chamber of commerce hysteria about a new hotel in town, it was just a two-room suite like most, with a sitting room and a larger bedroom beyond. There was a king-size bed, made up tight as a trampoline with a quilted, peach-colored spread, a white faux Queen Anne desk withbowlegs, a fax machine, and all the necessary twenty-first-century ports, upholstered chairs and love seats, and identical black twenty-seven-inch TVs in both rooms. Prints on the walls with scenes of the Detroit riverfront and Impressionistic daubs of the Fox and State theaters. Fresh flowers erupted out of tall vases and a complimentary fruit basket done up in gold-tinted cellophane with a card in an envelope no one had bothered to open. The drapes were open, with a fine view of Harmonie Park and beyond it the music hall. From this side of the tinted Plexiglas it looked like a picture postcard, no indication of the punishing heat and general dearth of people.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mai made a gracious openhanded gesture toward the minibar, a half-grown refrigerator with a microwave oven on top. I said a Coke would be great.
“Not something stronger?”
“Okay, Mountain Dew.”
She hesitated, smiling, eager to please. “You are a detective, yes? You drink rye, with a bourbon chaser. I learn my English from Turner Classic Movies,” she apologized.
I smiled. I wanted to wrap her up and set her on the mantel between the Balinese dancers. “Scotch, then. Do you have ice?”
“I can call down for some.”
“Let’s not bother them. They’re only getting half a week’s pay for one hour.”
She laughed, an adorable little tinkly giggle like ceramic skulls banging together, and broke the hundred-dollar seal on the refrigerator door. The little plastic bottle of Glenlivet took
Similar Books
