Read Online Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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Barby.”
She laughed. “Go on. Sob about it. That explains the liquor on your breath.”
“It does not.” He tried to look knowing. He could see seven legs waggling in the air. He could count seven, the others were blurred.
He heard her voice very far away. “But it doesn’t explain your wanting to improve my dentals.”
His voice was even further. “… you’re nuts about the Waffle. Everybody is. You bluff me with a lot of wild yarns about Toni Donne—” His voice stopped. He was floating. He liked it.
He opened his eyes in heavy dusk. He didn’t know where he was. His shoes were off. His hat was in the middle of the floor with a white sail on it. A streak of lightning played zigzag in his head. His mouth had a rug inside it, a thick one but not a particularly clean one. He bumped his shin finding a lamp. The white sail said: “Your shoes are in the bathroom. Turn out the lights and lock the door. If you’re still in the mood, you can do your strong man act at Number 50. Sweet dreams.”
He’d passed out. Too much brandy. The overheated apartment had done the rest.
In one brown brogue there was an unbroken pint of whiskey. In the other was a placard labeled: Dog Hair. He broke the seal, quarter-filled a red plastic tumbler. It tasted of plastic. He ducked his head in a bowl of cold water, rinsed out his mouth with antiseptic, combed back his black curly hair, poured another quarter. Flavored with mouth wash, it tasted better.
If he kept his head up the lightning was fairly static. But it wasn’t lightning bothering him now; it was footsteps. Limping footsteps. The sound of a man who couldn’t walk right, whose feet wobbled ….
Sweat broke out of every pore in Kit’s body. They were coming nearer. He could hear them, the thud, the slur. And the door wouldn’t be locked. He’d be alone with the deformed man! He shook his head and the lightning stabbed it. But the sound was still there. He crept into the living-room; he remembered the gun and his hand trembled to it. He heard nothing.
He had more sense than to shake his head again but he wanted to. He wanted to know if that had made the sound. He hadn’t heard those irregular steps in months, he wasn’t going to let them torture his ears again. He was cured and he couldn’t be listening to ghost limping.
The trouble was he hadn’t had any solid food since last night. That was why his wrist shook, why his watch hands pointing to nine-ten were jumping. That was why he’d passed out. Food might even pad the lightning. Content wouldn’t be at the club yet. She might be at Carlo Lepetino’s.
He walked the few blocks. The place was well-filled; he wolfed a platter of spaghetti, washed it with Dago red. No chance to talk alone with Carlo, nor did the man come around. Kit waylaid him at another table before he left. “I’m going to see Poppa. Where they living now?” He said to Carlo’s eyebrows, “Poppa Lepetino.”
There was faint hope beneath the sadness. “The same apartment like always, Mr. McKittrick.”
Kit turned back. “Miss Hamilton been here tonight?”
“Earlier she was here. With her young man, yes.”
That was a surprise dose. It must be José; it couldn’t be the blue-eyed Waffle; he was week-ending. Not just like that; there’d be others; Barby didn’t do things that way. But young Skaas wanted him to think that, and why hadn’t Barby said something? He mustn’t funk about Barby now. He mustn’t mix her up with Louie’s death. She had no place with darkness and destruction.
Kit went into the night. It smelled of fresh snow. He walked on to Fifth, caught a cab and gave the Sullivan Street address. Poppa and Momma Lepetino wouldn’t move uptown, not even for Louie. They’d lived in the red-brick tenement too long. The driver didn’t believe it but Kit paid off.
He climbed, four flights now, with more smell than noise behind doors. He knocked. Some little Lepetino let him in, yelled, “Poppa, Momma,” in a
She laughed. “Go on. Sob about it. That explains the liquor on your breath.”
“It does not.” He tried to look knowing. He could see seven legs waggling in the air. He could count seven, the others were blurred.
He heard her voice very far away. “But it doesn’t explain your wanting to improve my dentals.”
His voice was even further. “… you’re nuts about the Waffle. Everybody is. You bluff me with a lot of wild yarns about Toni Donne—” His voice stopped. He was floating. He liked it.
He opened his eyes in heavy dusk. He didn’t know where he was. His shoes were off. His hat was in the middle of the floor with a white sail on it. A streak of lightning played zigzag in his head. His mouth had a rug inside it, a thick one but not a particularly clean one. He bumped his shin finding a lamp. The white sail said: “Your shoes are in the bathroom. Turn out the lights and lock the door. If you’re still in the mood, you can do your strong man act at Number 50. Sweet dreams.”
He’d passed out. Too much brandy. The overheated apartment had done the rest.
In one brown brogue there was an unbroken pint of whiskey. In the other was a placard labeled: Dog Hair. He broke the seal, quarter-filled a red plastic tumbler. It tasted of plastic. He ducked his head in a bowl of cold water, rinsed out his mouth with antiseptic, combed back his black curly hair, poured another quarter. Flavored with mouth wash, it tasted better.
If he kept his head up the lightning was fairly static. But it wasn’t lightning bothering him now; it was footsteps. Limping footsteps. The sound of a man who couldn’t walk right, whose feet wobbled ….
Sweat broke out of every pore in Kit’s body. They were coming nearer. He could hear them, the thud, the slur. And the door wouldn’t be locked. He’d be alone with the deformed man! He shook his head and the lightning stabbed it. But the sound was still there. He crept into the living-room; he remembered the gun and his hand trembled to it. He heard nothing.
He had more sense than to shake his head again but he wanted to. He wanted to know if that had made the sound. He hadn’t heard those irregular steps in months, he wasn’t going to let them torture his ears again. He was cured and he couldn’t be listening to ghost limping.
The trouble was he hadn’t had any solid food since last night. That was why his wrist shook, why his watch hands pointing to nine-ten were jumping. That was why he’d passed out. Food might even pad the lightning. Content wouldn’t be at the club yet. She might be at Carlo Lepetino’s.
He walked the few blocks. The place was well-filled; he wolfed a platter of spaghetti, washed it with Dago red. No chance to talk alone with Carlo, nor did the man come around. Kit waylaid him at another table before he left. “I’m going to see Poppa. Where they living now?” He said to Carlo’s eyebrows, “Poppa Lepetino.”
There was faint hope beneath the sadness. “The same apartment like always, Mr. McKittrick.”
Kit turned back. “Miss Hamilton been here tonight?”
“Earlier she was here. With her young man, yes.”
That was a surprise dose. It must be José; it couldn’t be the blue-eyed Waffle; he was week-ending. Not just like that; there’d be others; Barby didn’t do things that way. But young Skaas wanted him to think that, and why hadn’t Barby said something? He mustn’t funk about Barby now. He mustn’t mix her up with Louie’s death. She had no place with darkness and destruction.
Kit went into the night. It smelled of fresh snow. He walked on to Fifth, caught a cab and gave the Sullivan Street address. Poppa and Momma Lepetino wouldn’t move uptown, not even for Louie. They’d lived in the red-brick tenement too long. The driver didn’t believe it but Kit paid off.
He climbed, four flights now, with more smell than noise behind doors. He knocked. Some little Lepetino let him in, yelled, “Poppa, Momma,” in a
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