Read Online Hard Play by Kurt Douglas - Free Book Online

glance at the screen, he picked a pencil off the desk and began twirling it between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned back in his chair.
    Looking at Frank, Rick said, “Shit. Looks like you’re on the right track. She was the presiding judge on his case. Put him away for four years. Statch and bash. County sent him to live with me a couple months ago. He’s a good guy. Best one here. The boy didn’t deserve what he got. You know the girl was eighteen when they went to trial?”
    “No, I didn’t know that,” Frank shook his head. How could he have known that?
    “Yeah,” Rick said as he shifted in his seat, “She was eighteen and her pops didn’t have a scratch on him. Assault my ass. Prolly didn’t even need to visit the hospital. Rich folks. Family looked like contestants on Family Feud sitting there. They’re just watching a man’s life go down the shitter instead of guessing words on a board.”
    “Mm-hmm.” Frank said, “Lots of families look like that. Takes years for some trials. Most of them resolve long before, physically and emotionally.”
    “It’s just hard to believe he’s your murderer.”
    “Not every murderer acts like a murderer, Dick. You want him to walk around with blood dripping from his sleeves and a knife stuffed in his warm-up pants before you start to ask questions? Not me. I’m asking questions. Nice guy or not.”
    Frank gulped the last bit of his coffee and said, “Where is he?”
    “Whatever, Frank. You were never one for opinions,” Rick spewed as he leaned forward, handing Frank a business card. “You’ll find Chad here. That’s where he’s working.”
    Frank turned the card over in his hand. Sporting a neon-green bud leaf in the top right corner, the card read, Hi-Green Collective: Best nugs on Franklin Ave .
    He pushed the card into his shirt pocket and stood up.
    As he headed toward the door, Frank turned and asked, “They let felons sell pot, huh?”
    Rick threw his hands up and said, “It’s legitimate work, Frank. If they can’t sell pot, what can they do?”
    Frank shrugged and opened the front door.
    Halfway out, Frank said into the air before him, “Always a pleasure, Dick,” and walked out into the courtyard, letting the door slam behind him.
    Sparking up a cigarette, he clanged through the gate and jumped into his Ambassador.
    The morning traffic had died down on the boulevard and it only took Frank two cigarettes to get to the collective off of Cahuenga and Franklin. Pulling into the parking lot, he noticed an abundance of BMWs. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was pulling into a used Beamer dealership. Maneuvering his car into a small space between two of the white Beamers, Frank threw the shifter in park with a clunk and opened his door, making sure to bump the car beside him just enough to satisfy his urge.
    The whole front of the weed outfit was painted in the same bright, neon green that made up the leaves on the business card. Other than the bright paint and the green cross next to the door, the nameless storefront could’ve been anything. Frank walked under the dome camera over the door and through the green plate glass, entering a small lobby.
    The wood floor glowed under the fluorescent lights above. The walls were decorated in various works of graffiti; art is what they’d call it. A handful of your favorite cartoon characters holding dime bags and joints. A certain lovable cat from the Sunday comics swallowing a few ounces of the sticky-icky poking out from a lasagna. Three little duck brothers wearing 420 T-shirts and sitting around a bong. All of this sprinkled along the perimeter of the small room. The tasteless mural only broke in three places; the entrance, a small rectangular window covered by frosted privacy glass, and a heavy steel door.
    Frank approached the window and chimed the small bell sitting on the ledge. The window zipped upward and he was greeted by a pair of large breasts tightly clad in a white tank