Read Online Hard Case Crime: Fifty to One by Charles Ardai - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Ardai
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away and a face appeared in the hole. The skin was ruddy and pocked beneath the glossy bill of the man’s uniform cap. “Hello?” the man said. “Is this the office of the Hard Case Crime book publishing company?”
Above the bill, the cap had a little metal insignia on it that featured an eagle, a shield, and what looked like a frontiersman standing with a musket by his side—it was a little hard to make out all the details. But you didn’t need to make them out to know what insignia it was.
“I thought you said you didn’t call them,” Tricia said.
“I didn’t!” Erin said.
Borden put his hat on, swung the door open.
“Yes, this is Hard Case Crime,” he said. “What can I do for you, officer?”
The man stepped inside. He was beefy and barrel-chested and he moved with the careless manner of an outdoorsman used to having plenty of room to swing his arms. You could picture him felling redwoods with an axe.
He doffed his cap, pointed with it at the overturned desk. “What happened here?”
“We’re renovating,” Borden said.
“I’ll say,” the policeman said. “Listen, I want to talk to the man in charge.” He took a leather-covered pad from a clip on his belt, flipped through its pages till he found the one he wanted. “A mister Charles Borden.” He shut the pad. “That you?”
“For variety’s sake,” Borden said, “let’s say yes.”
“And who are these two?” Pointing at Erin and Tricia.
“Colleagues of mine.”
“I suppose that’s all right then,” the policeman said. “Just as well for you all to hear this. I need some information about one of your authors.”
Tricia’s heart fell.
“And which of our authors would that be,” Borden said. “As if I didn’t know already.”
The policeman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered copy of I Robbed the Mob!.
“The one who stole three million dollars from Salvatore Nicolazzo last month,” he said.
7.
Home Is the Sailor
“Funny story,” Borden said. “That book isn’t what you think it is. You probably think it’s a true story, and I can certainly understand why, what with the word ‘true’ on the cover and all. But it isn’t. It’s actually a novel, same as all the other books we publish. One hundred percent fiction. Some of us just thought it would be,” he took a deep breath, “amusing to present this one as if it had really happened.” Borden smiled weakly. “But it didn’t.”
“Well, now, that is a funny story,” the cop said. “Because someone did steal three million dollars from Sal Nicolazzo last month.”
“Really,” Borden said.
“Oh, yeah. Walked into the Sun after hours, made his way to the counting room, opened the safe, emptied it out, and got away with three million smackers, pretty much to the letter the way it’s described in this fictional book of yours. Nicolazzo’s managed to keep it under wraps, but we’ve got people on the inside and word is the big man’s beside himself.” He pointed to the desk again. “You want some help with that?”
“Sure,” Borden said. “Why not.” Together, he and the cop turned the desk over, set it on its stumpy legs again. Borden was breathing hard when they were done, but the exertion didn’t seem to have bothered the cop at all.
“Mr. Borden,” he said, “I’ve been doing this a lot of years. I know where renovations like these come from. They come from men with names that end in vowels.”
“Like O’Malley?” Borden said, aiming a thumb at the nameplate pinned to the cop’s jacket.
“Wiseass,” O’Malley said. “ ‘Y’ isn’t a vowel.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Well, the ones I’m talking about are your ‘I’s and your ‘A’s and your ‘O’s. Especially,” he said emphatically, “your ‘O’s.”
“You trying to say something, officer,” Borden said, “or is this the Police Benevolent League’s version of a crossword puzzle?”
“All right, Borden. I’ll make it plain, so
Above the bill, the cap had a little metal insignia on it that featured an eagle, a shield, and what looked like a frontiersman standing with a musket by his side—it was a little hard to make out all the details. But you didn’t need to make them out to know what insignia it was.
“I thought you said you didn’t call them,” Tricia said.
“I didn’t!” Erin said.
Borden put his hat on, swung the door open.
“Yes, this is Hard Case Crime,” he said. “What can I do for you, officer?”
The man stepped inside. He was beefy and barrel-chested and he moved with the careless manner of an outdoorsman used to having plenty of room to swing his arms. You could picture him felling redwoods with an axe.
He doffed his cap, pointed with it at the overturned desk. “What happened here?”
“We’re renovating,” Borden said.
“I’ll say,” the policeman said. “Listen, I want to talk to the man in charge.” He took a leather-covered pad from a clip on his belt, flipped through its pages till he found the one he wanted. “A mister Charles Borden.” He shut the pad. “That you?”
“For variety’s sake,” Borden said, “let’s say yes.”
“And who are these two?” Pointing at Erin and Tricia.
“Colleagues of mine.”
“I suppose that’s all right then,” the policeman said. “Just as well for you all to hear this. I need some information about one of your authors.”
Tricia’s heart fell.
“And which of our authors would that be,” Borden said. “As if I didn’t know already.”
The policeman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered copy of I Robbed the Mob!.
“The one who stole three million dollars from Salvatore Nicolazzo last month,” he said.
7.
Home Is the Sailor
“Funny story,” Borden said. “That book isn’t what you think it is. You probably think it’s a true story, and I can certainly understand why, what with the word ‘true’ on the cover and all. But it isn’t. It’s actually a novel, same as all the other books we publish. One hundred percent fiction. Some of us just thought it would be,” he took a deep breath, “amusing to present this one as if it had really happened.” Borden smiled weakly. “But it didn’t.”
“Well, now, that is a funny story,” the cop said. “Because someone did steal three million dollars from Sal Nicolazzo last month.”
“Really,” Borden said.
“Oh, yeah. Walked into the Sun after hours, made his way to the counting room, opened the safe, emptied it out, and got away with three million smackers, pretty much to the letter the way it’s described in this fictional book of yours. Nicolazzo’s managed to keep it under wraps, but we’ve got people on the inside and word is the big man’s beside himself.” He pointed to the desk again. “You want some help with that?”
“Sure,” Borden said. “Why not.” Together, he and the cop turned the desk over, set it on its stumpy legs again. Borden was breathing hard when they were done, but the exertion didn’t seem to have bothered the cop at all.
“Mr. Borden,” he said, “I’ve been doing this a lot of years. I know where renovations like these come from. They come from men with names that end in vowels.”
“Like O’Malley?” Borden said, aiming a thumb at the nameplate pinned to the cop’s jacket.
“Wiseass,” O’Malley said. “ ‘Y’ isn’t a vowel.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Well, the ones I’m talking about are your ‘I’s and your ‘A’s and your ‘O’s. Especially,” he said emphatically, “your ‘O’s.”
“You trying to say something, officer,” Borden said, “or is this the Police Benevolent League’s version of a crossword puzzle?”
“All right, Borden. I’ll make it plain, so
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