Read Online And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) by Warren Murphy - Free Book Online Page B

drink,” he said. The one in Dan Rosado’s office really didn’t count because it was forced on him and he didn’t finish it all anyway.
    “I’m proud of you,” she said.
    “Too late now after all this abuse. What are you doing home anyway? I thought you’re supposed to be a convention hostess?”
    “Don’t start,” she said grimly. “I am a convention hostess. I’ve been one all day. I baby-sat two surly little snotnoses. I helped some woman who was locked out of her room. I turned down four sexual offers. Why is it only guys named Mel attack me in Las Vegas? Let’s see. I told Bob Swenson that I didn’t want him to divorce his wife and marry me. Then I told him that I didn’t want him to adopt me and try to pass me off to his wife as a Cambodian foundling. I’ve had my ass pinched and my little tits brushed by more elbows today than I’ve had in three years of dealing at the Araby. If this is Middle America, give me gambling degenerates every time. I’m exhausted.” She looked at him and winked. “Of course, if you were a donkey, I could probably fit you into my schedule. Eeeeyou. Asses Up .” And she started laughing again.
    “Will you stop? This is serious. You really shouldn’t be listening to my tapes.”
    “You’re kidding,” she said as she raised herself back to a sitting position and twisted her legs again into a full lotus.
    “No, I’m not. You think you’ve been listening to my tapes other times, but I edit them and launder them and leave some out so I don’t upset you. A very important thing. Tapes are private and we’ve always respected each other’s privacy.”
    “Horse dookie,” she said. “Or donkey dookie, if you prefer. Respect privacy? Every time I’m out you want to know where I was and who I was with and did I make any money and was it good for me. Privacy? You don’t know the meaning of the word privacy.
    “I never open your mail,” he said righteously.
    “I never get any. I get a bill for magazines. Two book clubs. That’s it.”
    “Why don’t you ever get any mail here?” he said. “Are you getting your mail somewhere else?”
    “Sorry,” she said. “That’s a private matter.”
    “I don’t think that’s funny,” Trace said. “And I don’t appreciate your sitting there showing off, just because you’re able to twist your legs into a pretzel.”
    “Sorry,” macho man. You’re the one who wanted to play football and wound up with glass knees. Don’t blame me.”
    Trace sat on the couch and tried to look irritated.
    “Trace, old buddy,” she said, “you can take your tapes and stuff them. You can metamorphose, if you want, into a donkey. You can spend the next six months in rut with National Anthem. Do donkeys rut? Moose rut.”
    “I think donkeys kong. I think you say spend six months in kong with a donkey.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Trace, I don’t care what you do and what your tapes tell about it. I didn’t sign on here for fidelity. I know you: you’re about as constant as Old Will’s moon. You have screwed half of Las Vegas and the other half is on your schedule. You would sleep with a snake if you were sure it wasn’t dead. You are an unregenerate degenerate. You’re not faithful, you’re not loyal, and you’re not even nice.”
    “And you came all this way home just to tell me that. Isn’t that nice?” he said.
    “I told you I was exhausted. I came home to exercise.”
    She said this in a way that convinced Trace that she really believed it was a logical statement and that one thing followed the other. Actually, it probably was. She was a dancer by training, and when her head got fuzzy, she unfuzzed it by making her body work. Her wonderful dancer’s body. He looked at her again, taut and trim in her leotards. He approved.
    “Get that look out of your eye,” she said. “I’m mad at you, for openers, and anyway I’ve got to shower and get back to the zoo for tonight’s reception. Trace, tell me