Read Online Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
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Hers, no doubt. The lady was deep into the cups, which
perhaps explained her behavior.
I turned to her with a new try at patience
only to find her pelvis riding my hip, and the balance of the
conversation took place in that attitude.
Me: "You're right. It's no time for cute.
Terry did not offer me a contract, no, he conferred one upon me. I
gather it is the same type of indentured service conferred upon
everyone who stumbles into this spiderweb. I'll bet that you are
under a marital contract with identical provisions. How much free
and clear per day are you getting, Marcia?"
She: "Not nearly enough. But that is all
going to come tumbling down next week, so don't lose any sleep over
it. I still want you out of here."
Me: "Not nearly as much as I want me out of
here, lady. So don't you lose any sleep over that. Why will it
tumble down?"
She: "The ride is over, that's all, the end
is here. And I say thank God to that. But I'll still scratch your
eyes out if you try moving in on that girl."
Me: "Look again, Marcia, that girl is no
longer a girl. She's a bona fide woman, certifiably so, with a
right to choose her own company. But if your concern is real, then
that makes us allies, sort of. What sort of sick is she?"
She: 'The sort of sick that makes her a
natural for con men like you. Sick between the thighs, or hadn't
you noticed, and don't try to say you haven't."
Me: "What you call sick others would call a
basic human need—or don't you have those kinds of needs too?"
She: "Sure I have that kind of need. So what
are you—a superjock? Big lover? Think you can handle eight to ten
tussles a day?"
Me: "Do it right the first time, Marcia, who
needs the other seven to nine?"
She: "I don't know. When do you want to show
me?"
Me: "Well, there probably would not be time
before dinner."
She: "Keep your dance card open, lover. Meet
you back here at ten."
She snared her drink and headed for the
door, opened it, turned back to say, "I can hardly wait."
I asked her, at that distance, "What is he
setting me up for, Marcia?"
She giggled, waved the drink at me, and
replied in departure, "Tell you at ten."
It would have been a great seduction routine
if she had been wearing leather and dragging a whip—and certainly
there had been an element of seduction to that entire encounter—but
I had to vote for it as only a secondary motive for that visit to
my bedroom.
The whole thing was
beginning to spin around in my head, but without any clear vortex.
Oh, sure, you are way ahead of me and thinking how obvious it ought
to be by now. There have been forty thousand B-movies and God only
knows how many television melodramas built around identical
situations. We all must surely know, at this point, that Kalinsky
has been looting the estate and milking the trusts for all they are
worth and that, with Karen about to come into her own, she is
probably also coming into mortal danger.
But I was immersed in a real-life situation
and I have discovered that real life is not as malleable as
fiction.
No one is that much in charge here. There's
no script to follow and no director shouting instructions to a cast
that is willing to blindly follow. Real life is not scripted, it is
usually played by ear, and few of us ever know exactly why we do
what we do or say what we say.
Fiction is economical, has to be, everything
pointed toward a desired effect. Real life is luxurious, no matter
what your station; the options are endless and occurring moment by
moment, and very damned few things in the individual lifestream
seem pointed toward anything in particular.
I cannot approach real life with fictional
devices and neither can you.
So bear with me, here, and do not leap ahead
to a synthetic conclusion. I could not afford to, even though
everything inside of me was yelling at me to get the hell out.
What was the real reason behind Marcia's
visit?
Was she really concerned for Karen or was
that just a smoke screen—and, if a smoke screen, why would
perhaps explained her behavior.
I turned to her with a new try at patience
only to find her pelvis riding my hip, and the balance of the
conversation took place in that attitude.
Me: "You're right. It's no time for cute.
Terry did not offer me a contract, no, he conferred one upon me. I
gather it is the same type of indentured service conferred upon
everyone who stumbles into this spiderweb. I'll bet that you are
under a marital contract with identical provisions. How much free
and clear per day are you getting, Marcia?"
She: "Not nearly enough. But that is all
going to come tumbling down next week, so don't lose any sleep over
it. I still want you out of here."
Me: "Not nearly as much as I want me out of
here, lady. So don't you lose any sleep over that. Why will it
tumble down?"
She: "The ride is over, that's all, the end
is here. And I say thank God to that. But I'll still scratch your
eyes out if you try moving in on that girl."
Me: "Look again, Marcia, that girl is no
longer a girl. She's a bona fide woman, certifiably so, with a
right to choose her own company. But if your concern is real, then
that makes us allies, sort of. What sort of sick is she?"
She: 'The sort of sick that makes her a
natural for con men like you. Sick between the thighs, or hadn't
you noticed, and don't try to say you haven't."
Me: "What you call sick others would call a
basic human need—or don't you have those kinds of needs too?"
She: "Sure I have that kind of need. So what
are you—a superjock? Big lover? Think you can handle eight to ten
tussles a day?"
Me: "Do it right the first time, Marcia, who
needs the other seven to nine?"
She: "I don't know. When do you want to show
me?"
Me: "Well, there probably would not be time
before dinner."
She: "Keep your dance card open, lover. Meet
you back here at ten."
She snared her drink and headed for the
door, opened it, turned back to say, "I can hardly wait."
I asked her, at that distance, "What is he
setting me up for, Marcia?"
She giggled, waved the drink at me, and
replied in departure, "Tell you at ten."
It would have been a great seduction routine
if she had been wearing leather and dragging a whip—and certainly
there had been an element of seduction to that entire encounter—but
I had to vote for it as only a secondary motive for that visit to
my bedroom.
The whole thing was
beginning to spin around in my head, but without any clear vortex.
Oh, sure, you are way ahead of me and thinking how obvious it ought
to be by now. There have been forty thousand B-movies and God only
knows how many television melodramas built around identical
situations. We all must surely know, at this point, that Kalinsky
has been looting the estate and milking the trusts for all they are
worth and that, with Karen about to come into her own, she is
probably also coming into mortal danger.
But I was immersed in a real-life situation
and I have discovered that real life is not as malleable as
fiction.
No one is that much in charge here. There's
no script to follow and no director shouting instructions to a cast
that is willing to blindly follow. Real life is not scripted, it is
usually played by ear, and few of us ever know exactly why we do
what we do or say what we say.
Fiction is economical, has to be, everything
pointed toward a desired effect. Real life is luxurious, no matter
what your station; the options are endless and occurring moment by
moment, and very damned few things in the individual lifestream
seem pointed toward anything in particular.
I cannot approach real life with fictional
devices and neither can you.
So bear with me, here, and do not leap ahead
to a synthetic conclusion. I could not afford to, even though
everything inside of me was yelling at me to get the hell out.
What was the real reason behind Marcia's
visit?
Was she really concerned for Karen or was
that just a smoke screen—and, if a smoke screen, why would
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