Read Online Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Anthony
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egg. I look into it. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“No talking. Find you a slot and put it in.”
The woman’s voice comes from behind the left-hand wall. Its thin, pliable surface is marred by thumb-sized puckers. I take my card from my pocket and push it through.
“Are you kidding? Jesus. Just a minute.”
A flurry of muttering, shuffling activity. The camera lens swings toward me and locks.
“Tick,” the woman says. “No wonder.”
“Can I see you? Can you come out from behind there?”
“We don’t do it that way. And you pay when you leave. Just find one of the slots comfortable for you and stick it through. The door behind you is locked. When you’re finished, put your card in the reader, and the door will open.”
Talia Hendrix sounds as if she’s on the down side of forty. “I don’t understand.”
“Christ.” Her mutter is so quiet I can barely hear it through the rubberized wall. “A blow job, okay? That’s what we do here: blow jobs. No fondling, no kissing. Just a blow job.”
Surprise makes me laugh. “Okay. We have a misunderstanding here, I think. I was looking for the Talia Hendrix who was married to Dr. Paulie Hendrix. I need to talk to her about her husband’s death.”
A long, weighty silence while the laughter dies in my throat. It’s a furtive silence, somehow a sad one, one in which the bright white room holds its breath.
“I’m that Tal Hendrix.” Her voice sounds older now, more like a tired fifty. “I get off work in about ten minutes. Wait for me in the hall.”
WHILE I WAIT, a man walks in. He gives me a furtive look. Baby face, neat hair, nice clothes. Too well groomed for the south side. And then I recognize him. One of the God’s Warriors at the bombing. One of the junior officers who passed me on the stairs.
He recognizes me, too. Lowering his head, he walks faster. I tense as he approaches the third door. Relax as he passes by. At the fourth he enters. The door slides shut. A light over the jamb changes from green to amber. For occupied.
I check the time. 3:59. I study the green light above Mrs. Hendrix’s door. At 4:08, I return to the room.
Behind me a hiss as the door shuts. “Mrs. Hendrix?”
No answer.
Louder. “Mrs. Hendrix?”
“Off duty.” A different voice. Younger. Early twenties. Maybe even teens.
“Is she still here?” What if there’s a back door? Of course. There has to be. This sort of place, there’s always a back way out.
A pause. “Sir. I can’t tell you that. We’re not allowed to fraternize with the customers when we’re off duty.”
“I’m a police officer.”
The camera swings my way. A confused, “I’m sorry, but — ”
I jerk my head up, face the camera. “I’m a police officer with Earth Home Force. I need to talk to Mrs. Hendrix. I need to talk with her now.”
“I can’t — ”
“You’re impeding a murder investigation. Where is she?”
“I — ” Scared. A young girl torn between the rules of her job and the cold threat of the law.
“Where!”
“She went home. She — ”
Ran out on me. While I was waiting for her in the hall, she ran out on me. I slam my card into the scanner. Sprint for the door. The street is empty but for the guard. I hunch my shoulders against the chill and stride toward Deliverance, moving fast.
Wait. A block down God’s Gift. Something dark in the shadows. No. Imagination. But then, through the spotlight of the street lamp comes the sway of a red coat. A glint of gold hair. A proud, tilted head.
An instant’s strobe of color, and she’s gone.
My heart stops. My throat closes on her name. I run through the street lamp’s island of safety. Toward the next corner. The next lamp has failed.
Dark here. So black that my vision swims. Not this. Not now. I want to go back to the Meat Market. There’re lights there. I’ll call a cab. I’ll . . .
My whole life.
Reece and now . . . But what if? What if you could roll back time? When I was a kid, I
“No talking. Find you a slot and put it in.”
The woman’s voice comes from behind the left-hand wall. Its thin, pliable surface is marred by thumb-sized puckers. I take my card from my pocket and push it through.
“Are you kidding? Jesus. Just a minute.”
A flurry of muttering, shuffling activity. The camera lens swings toward me and locks.
“Tick,” the woman says. “No wonder.”
“Can I see you? Can you come out from behind there?”
“We don’t do it that way. And you pay when you leave. Just find one of the slots comfortable for you and stick it through. The door behind you is locked. When you’re finished, put your card in the reader, and the door will open.”
Talia Hendrix sounds as if she’s on the down side of forty. “I don’t understand.”
“Christ.” Her mutter is so quiet I can barely hear it through the rubberized wall. “A blow job, okay? That’s what we do here: blow jobs. No fondling, no kissing. Just a blow job.”
Surprise makes me laugh. “Okay. We have a misunderstanding here, I think. I was looking for the Talia Hendrix who was married to Dr. Paulie Hendrix. I need to talk to her about her husband’s death.”
A long, weighty silence while the laughter dies in my throat. It’s a furtive silence, somehow a sad one, one in which the bright white room holds its breath.
“I’m that Tal Hendrix.” Her voice sounds older now, more like a tired fifty. “I get off work in about ten minutes. Wait for me in the hall.”
WHILE I WAIT, a man walks in. He gives me a furtive look. Baby face, neat hair, nice clothes. Too well groomed for the south side. And then I recognize him. One of the God’s Warriors at the bombing. One of the junior officers who passed me on the stairs.
He recognizes me, too. Lowering his head, he walks faster. I tense as he approaches the third door. Relax as he passes by. At the fourth he enters. The door slides shut. A light over the jamb changes from green to amber. For occupied.
I check the time. 3:59. I study the green light above Mrs. Hendrix’s door. At 4:08, I return to the room.
Behind me a hiss as the door shuts. “Mrs. Hendrix?”
No answer.
Louder. “Mrs. Hendrix?”
“Off duty.” A different voice. Younger. Early twenties. Maybe even teens.
“Is she still here?” What if there’s a back door? Of course. There has to be. This sort of place, there’s always a back way out.
A pause. “Sir. I can’t tell you that. We’re not allowed to fraternize with the customers when we’re off duty.”
“I’m a police officer.”
The camera swings my way. A confused, “I’m sorry, but — ”
I jerk my head up, face the camera. “I’m a police officer with Earth Home Force. I need to talk to Mrs. Hendrix. I need to talk with her now.”
“I can’t — ”
“You’re impeding a murder investigation. Where is she?”
“I — ” Scared. A young girl torn between the rules of her job and the cold threat of the law.
“Where!”
“She went home. She — ”
Ran out on me. While I was waiting for her in the hall, she ran out on me. I slam my card into the scanner. Sprint for the door. The street is empty but for the guard. I hunch my shoulders against the chill and stride toward Deliverance, moving fast.
Wait. A block down God’s Gift. Something dark in the shadows. No. Imagination. But then, through the spotlight of the street lamp comes the sway of a red coat. A glint of gold hair. A proud, tilted head.
An instant’s strobe of color, and she’s gone.
My heart stops. My throat closes on her name. I run through the street lamp’s island of safety. Toward the next corner. The next lamp has failed.
Dark here. So black that my vision swims. Not this. Not now. I want to go back to the Meat Market. There’re lights there. I’ll call a cab. I’ll . . .
My whole life.
Reece and now . . . But what if? What if you could roll back time? When I was a kid, I
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