Read Online Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant - Free Book Online Page A

afternoon will be fine.”
    â€œWill you come back for it, or do you want me to …” Lulu works the dramatic pause by pushing her shoulders back and crossing her legs, flashing more meaty thigh than is appropriate for a bordello, never mind a morgue, “deliver?”
    I shake my head, trying not to laugh.
    â€œYou know, Lulu, since the operation, every word out of your mouth sounds like a come-on. It was bad enough when you were—”
    â€œI’m a very sexual person, Dixie.”
    â€œSexual I get, but it’s like you’re a hormonal hand grenade ready to explode.”
    â€œMaybe I am.”
    I grimace. “I don’t normally do this—in fact, it goes against my core beliefs—but have you ever considered porn?”
    Her eyes open wide, curious.
    â€œYou know, like acting in …” My awkwardness is palpable as I attempt to stop my flushed cheeks from catching on fire. “It might give you the relief you’re after until, well—”
    â€œKnow anyone?” she asks.
    â€œNo! I—I mean, how would I? Ch—check the classifieds. There must be a union office or casting agency. Hell, you’re the librarian. If anyone can find …”
    Lulu laughs and flattens her skirt.
    â€œYou’re so cute.”
    â€œNo,” I blurt. “Really, I’m not.”
    â€œYou want me to leave the files on your desk?”
    â€œYes. I would appreciate that.”
    â€œMmmm,” she moans. “How much?”
    â€œOh, jeez,” I groan. “I’m outta here!”
    _____
    I run down the three flights of stairs and burst outside before the sizzle of lamb souvlaki and aroma of lemon-infused potato forces me to detour. I don’t slow down until I’m a block away with my nasal passages clogged with fresh traffic fumes.
    Union Street is only six blocks away, and the sun has yet to rise high enough to make the walk unbearable. That’s one of the troubles of being a redhead. I hate to be indoors, but my fair complexion leaves few alternatives.
    Just as some women always know the location of the nearest washroom, I tend to plot where to find the next patch of cool shade. In the middle of summer, I scurry from shadow to shadow like a leper hiding her face while the beautiful bronzed people soak in the sun, sacrificing their skin in the hope Mattel will one day immortalize them in plastic.
    Lately, I’ve found the shadows becoming more crowded as the ozone/cancer scare sinks in. It’s nice to have the company, but sometimes I wish the reformed sun worshippers would leave the cool places to those of us who don’t have a choice.
    One of the joys of walking in the morning is the chance to watch the illusive wisps of ethereal mist that still huddle deep in the alleys. Like vampires, each tendril shrinks away from the encroaching sun, entwining with others of its kind to dance and brush lips.
    Sometimes, I feel their vaporous arms challenging me to run down the silver-streaked alleyways and join them. But each time I get up the nerve to become a child, stretching my arms wide like an airplane and readying my lips to make propeller noises, they dissipate. In their place, solid forms twitch and stumble, unfocused eyes glistening within pale, skeletal masks, and the road’s shiny shards of silver become broken pieces of glass.
    San Francisco does that to you. It loves to tease, taunt, and flirt. If you listen close, you can hear a snicker as it forces your collar to rise against its frigid breath, then, as though forgiven, it lifts the haze and allows the sun to shine.
    Of course, I could just be crazy. The city does that to you too.
    In daylight, the building that houses Diego Chino’s condo looks no different. It is still trendy and unsettlingly expensive.
    I enter through the first set of glass doors in the lobby and press the buzzer for Mrs. M. Stewart, one of the ground floor tenants. Unlike last night, the