Read Online Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick - Free Book Online

better do was contact Jim Simmons. I didn’t want to do it in front of any other cops, so I phoned him at his office and told him to meet me at the usual place, and sure enough he showed up twenty minutes later at Red’s Jungle, the bar we’d meet at before or after a game. The owner was a very nice gray-haired lady whose name wasn’t Red, and the field hadn’t been The Jungle since Boomer Esiason took the Bengals to the Super Bowl back in 1989, but it had the right atmosphere: if you were going to or coming from a baseball or football game, this was the place to be.
    Jim was in a corner booth when I got there, and I walked over and sat down opposite him.
    â€œI figured whatever you had to say, you didn’t want to say it at the bar where anyone could overhear,” he said by way of greeting.
    â€œRight,” I answered.
    â€œSo is this about the cat—or hopefully about the deceased?” he asked. “Or are you on a new case?”
    â€œSame case,” I said. “Though I’m freelancing now. I have a feeling that Velma—Mrs. Pepperidge—doesn’t want to hire me back.”
    He grinned at that. “Okay, what is it that you want to share with me?”
    I learned forward. “Jim, I figure someone in the department should know that there are three Bolivian hitters involved somehow, and they’re in town.”
    He looked at me in disbelief. “Bolivian?” he repeated, half-smiling. “Not Paraguayan or Ecuadorian?”
    I waited for Red to come by and take our drinks order and then answered him. “It’s complicated. But they are Bolivian, they are killers, they may have killed Pepperidge, and they’re still in town.”
    He pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Names?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOkay, descriptions?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHow much have you had to drink, Eli?” he asked.
    â€œNot a drop until Red gets back with my beer.”
    He shook his head. “This isn’t like you. You’re holding back something, probably a bunch of somethings. I can’t act on what little you’ve told me.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “What I told you is for public consumption. What I’m going to say next is for you alone. If you have to pass parts of it along to save a life, of course you have to. But otherwise it’s for your ears only until I tell you otherwise.”
    â€œFair enough,” he said as Red brought my beer and Jim’s bourbon to the table.
    â€œSome weather we’re having,” she said. “And the poor bastards are playing at home this weekend. You think they’ll ever put a dome on the damned stadium?”
    â€œNot a chance,” said Simmons. “Same reason they don’t dome Soldier Field in Chicago or Lambeau Field in Green Bay. We’re used to cold weather. Those warm-weather teams from Florida and California aren’t, so this gives us an advantage. Remember the Ice Bowl? Anthony Muñoz and the guys came out in their short-sleeved jerseys, the San Diego Chargers took one look at them, and for all practical purposes the game was over before it started.”
    â€œI’m way too young to remember that,” lied Red.
    â€œOf course you are,” lied Simmons. “My mistake.”
    She kissed him on his bald spot and want back to the bar.
    â€œYou’re quite a ladies’ man,” I said with a smile.
    â€œOld ladies,” he answered. “The young ones see right through me.” He paused. “Okay, what have you learned that I can’t tell to anyone else unless the Iranians—excuse me: the Bolivians—bomb the city.”
    â€œYou know anything more about Palanto than what you told me?”
    â€œJust what we have in the files,” he answered. “Hell, you can probably find it on Wikipedia .”
    â€œWhatever that is.”
    He rolled his eyes and shook his head