Read Online D is for Deadbeat by Sue Grafton - Free Book Online

between a P.I. and a client, but at least the front money makes it clear where my loyalties lie.
    â€œFour hundred should cover it,” I said. I wondered if the figure came to mind because of Daggett’s bounced check. Oddly enough, I felt protective of him. He’d conned me—there was no doubt of that—but I
had
agreed to work for him, and in my mind, I still had a duty to discharge. Of course, I might not have felt as charitable if he were still alive, but the dead are defenseless, and somebody in this world has to look out for them.
    â€œI’ll have my secretary cut you a check first thing Monday morning,” she said. She turned back, looking out the double doors into the gloom. She leaned her head against the glass.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œYou don’t know how many times I’ve wished him dead,” she said. “Have you ever dealt with an alcoholic?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œThey’re so maddening. I used to look at him and I was convinced he could quit drinking if he wanted to. I don’t know how many times I talked to him, begging him to stop. I thought he didn’t understand. I thought he just wasn’t aware of what we were going through, my mother and me. I can remember the look he’d get in his eyes when he was drunk. Little pink piggy eyes. His whole body radiated this odor. Bourbon. God, I hate that stuff. He smelled like somebody’d dropped a bottle of Early Times down a heater vent . . . waves of smell. He reeked of it.”
    She looked over at me, her eyes dry and pitiless. “I’m thirty-four and I’ve hated him with every cell in my body for as long as I can remember. And now I’m stuck with it. He won, didn’t he? He never changed, never straightened up, never gave us an inch. He was such a shitheel. It makes me want to smash this glass door out. I don’t even know why I care how he died. I should be relieved, but I’m pissed. The irony is that he’s probably still going to dominate my life.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œLook what he’s done to me already. I think of him every time I have a drink. I think of him if I decide
not
to have a drink. If I even
meet
a man who drinks or if I see a bum on the street or smell bourbon, his face is the first thing that comes to mind. Oh God, and if I’m around someone who’s had too much, I can’t stand it. I disconnect. My life is filled with reminders of him. Hisapologies and his phony, wheedling charm, his boohooing when the booze got to him. The times he fell, the times he got put in jail, the times he spent every dime we had. When I was twelve, Mother got religion and I don’t know which was worse. At least Daddy woke up most days in okay shape. She had Jesus for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was grotesque. And then there were the joys of being an only child.”
    She broke off abruptly and seemed to shake herself.
    â€œOh hell. What difference does it make? I know I sound sorry for myself, but it’s been such a bitch and there’s no end in sight.”
    â€œActually, you look like you’ve done pretty well,” I said.
    She turned her gaze back to the parking lot and I could see her faint, bitter smile reflected in the glass. “You know what they say about living well as the best revenge. I did well because it was the one defense I had. Escape has been the motivating force in my life. Getting away from him, getting away from her, putting that household behind me. The funny thing is, I haven’t moved an inch, and the harder I run, the faster I keep slipping back to them. There are spiders that work like that. They bury themselves and create a little pocket of loose dirt. Then when their prey comes along, the soil gives way and the victim slides right down into the trap. There are laws for everything except the harm families do.”
    She turned, shoving her hands down in her raincoatpockets. She pushed