Read Online Cold Bullets and Hot Babes: Dark Crime Stories by Arlette Lees - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arlette Lees
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do. Her father. That had to be it. A medical emergency. The final one, if his luck held. Relax, Cash. It’s all good.
Now the waiter was standing over him waving the check, tapping his foot. No, the lady had not paid. She’d run out of the establishment like her dress was on fire. He must be right then. A grave family crisis. Even so he’d feel a lot better if the diamond ring were in his pocket instead of on her finger.
The waiter cleared his throat. “Sir, the check.”
Annoyed at having to dip into the ‘real’ money, Cash pulled out his wallet. Irritation in his every gesture, he flipped open the bill compartment. Empty! That was IMPOSSIBLE! The wallet hadn’t left his pocket all evening.
The waiter snorted with disgust and went to get the manager.
Sweat prickled in Cash’s armpits and ran down his ribs like spiders. Now, the manager was walking toward his table, looking none too friendly. Panic stricken, Cash bolted from the restaurant like a common criminal. Normally, he was smooth as silk, could talk himself out of these small fixes, but, with all the worry over Greta his mind simply vapor-locked.
Three blocks away he stopped running, his heart thundering in his chest. Shit! He was too old for this crap. Felt like he was going to have a heart attack. And just when everything was going so well.
Now what? He found a pay phone and fished for the last coin to his name. His phone rang and rang. Damn! Carly had turned off the f-ing ringer again. Then he remembered that the Porsche was out of gas, so she couldn’t have picked him up anyway. He hung up and the phone swallowed his last quarter. He beat the damn machine to death with the mouthpiece, only stopping after he crushed his thumb.
Desperate, he found himself pacing outside a liquor store. He hated this part of town. Reminded him of the kind of neighborhood he’d run away from as a scrawny, hungry kid. He was at his wit’s end until he bumped into a good Samaritan named Blooper, who drank his beer out of a paper bag, and gave him a lift in an old, red pickup that smelled like marijuana and sweaty dogs.
When they pulled up to the high-rise, there was no sign of the Lincoln. He pushed Greta’s buzzer a hundred times and got no response. In sheer desperation, he kicked the security door, until he snapped a toe. Back in the street, the Ford sat low to the ground on four slashed tires.
This kind of shit didn’t happen on this side of town. This kind of shit didn’t happen to him! The sick swirling in the pit of his stomach told him the engagement was off. It also told him his diamond ring was probably in another state by now, along with the exotic, erotic, black-haired Greta. He doubled over and threw up next to the Ford.
Blooper was leaning casually against his truck, rolling a doobie, spilling most of the bud onto the asphalt. He looked up with a shrug.
“Need a ride someplace else, bub?” he said.
It was pitch black with no moon on the rise. As lousy as he felt, it was a comfort to see the golden lamplight spilling from the condo window. It was nice to know that even if he didn’t give a hill of beans about Carly, she’d greet him with open arms. He might even put up with that yapping rodent another day or two.
He slipped his key in the lock, wondering what cover story he’d concoct about the missing Ford. In a pinch he always came up with something. The condo was both quiet and empty. Carly was nowhere to be seen. The satiny bed was made, but every last personal item had been removed from the rooms. The drawers, shelves, closets and medicine cabinet were empty and every surface was wiped clean. It was as if Carly had never set foot in the place. The only thing left behind was a vague scent of lemon in the air. Then he noticed the note pinned to the lampshade.
YOU CAN KEEP THE FORD.
Holy shit! The Porsche!
Cash ran down the stairs and limped toward the carport. The slot was empty. A small patch of transmission fluid shone wetly in the
Now the waiter was standing over him waving the check, tapping his foot. No, the lady had not paid. She’d run out of the establishment like her dress was on fire. He must be right then. A grave family crisis. Even so he’d feel a lot better if the diamond ring were in his pocket instead of on her finger.
The waiter cleared his throat. “Sir, the check.”
Annoyed at having to dip into the ‘real’ money, Cash pulled out his wallet. Irritation in his every gesture, he flipped open the bill compartment. Empty! That was IMPOSSIBLE! The wallet hadn’t left his pocket all evening.
The waiter snorted with disgust and went to get the manager.
Sweat prickled in Cash’s armpits and ran down his ribs like spiders. Now, the manager was walking toward his table, looking none too friendly. Panic stricken, Cash bolted from the restaurant like a common criminal. Normally, he was smooth as silk, could talk himself out of these small fixes, but, with all the worry over Greta his mind simply vapor-locked.
Three blocks away he stopped running, his heart thundering in his chest. Shit! He was too old for this crap. Felt like he was going to have a heart attack. And just when everything was going so well.
Now what? He found a pay phone and fished for the last coin to his name. His phone rang and rang. Damn! Carly had turned off the f-ing ringer again. Then he remembered that the Porsche was out of gas, so she couldn’t have picked him up anyway. He hung up and the phone swallowed his last quarter. He beat the damn machine to death with the mouthpiece, only stopping after he crushed his thumb.
Desperate, he found himself pacing outside a liquor store. He hated this part of town. Reminded him of the kind of neighborhood he’d run away from as a scrawny, hungry kid. He was at his wit’s end until he bumped into a good Samaritan named Blooper, who drank his beer out of a paper bag, and gave him a lift in an old, red pickup that smelled like marijuana and sweaty dogs.
When they pulled up to the high-rise, there was no sign of the Lincoln. He pushed Greta’s buzzer a hundred times and got no response. In sheer desperation, he kicked the security door, until he snapped a toe. Back in the street, the Ford sat low to the ground on four slashed tires.
This kind of shit didn’t happen on this side of town. This kind of shit didn’t happen to him! The sick swirling in the pit of his stomach told him the engagement was off. It also told him his diamond ring was probably in another state by now, along with the exotic, erotic, black-haired Greta. He doubled over and threw up next to the Ford.
Blooper was leaning casually against his truck, rolling a doobie, spilling most of the bud onto the asphalt. He looked up with a shrug.
“Need a ride someplace else, bub?” he said.
It was pitch black with no moon on the rise. As lousy as he felt, it was a comfort to see the golden lamplight spilling from the condo window. It was nice to know that even if he didn’t give a hill of beans about Carly, she’d greet him with open arms. He might even put up with that yapping rodent another day or two.
He slipped his key in the lock, wondering what cover story he’d concoct about the missing Ford. In a pinch he always came up with something. The condo was both quiet and empty. Carly was nowhere to be seen. The satiny bed was made, but every last personal item had been removed from the rooms. The drawers, shelves, closets and medicine cabinet were empty and every surface was wiped clean. It was as if Carly had never set foot in the place. The only thing left behind was a vague scent of lemon in the air. Then he noticed the note pinned to the lampshade.
YOU CAN KEEP THE FORD.
Holy shit! The Porsche!
Cash ran down the stairs and limped toward the carport. The slot was empty. A small patch of transmission fluid shone wetly in the
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