Read Online Hell's Bay by James W. Hall - Free Book Online Page A

up.”
    â€œCarter’s the family’s legal eagle,” John said, patting the small man on the back. “Old and dear friend.”
    As Mosley made his exit, he gave me one more searching glance. Milligan ushered him out into the twilight, and they had a word on the landing before Mosley left.
    The rest of the night sailed by with dishes of hickory-smoked free-range buffalo rib-eye with foie gras yuca cake and soy-lacquered sea bass and three bottles of a tasty red wine that Annette knew a good bit about. She’d visited the vineyard on assignment, met the owner. Told an amusing story about the guy. Everyone joined in the laughter except Mona. She moved the food around on her plate and looked up from time to time to frown at whoever was speaking.
    Through most of the main course, Annette took charge, going one by one around the table and shining the spotlight of her attention on each of us. For a while she focused on Rusty and got her to confess that this whole houseboat enterprise had been such a long-deferred dream that she was having trouble believing it was all finally coming true. Plus she was nervous as hell that everything should go smoothly. When she was done, murmurs of reassurance passed around the table.
    Then Milligan got his turn and told a brief, self-mocking story about taking up golf, beaning his caddy twice in one week, then buying him a hard hat. When Annette focused on Teeter, he mumbled something about a new recipe for scal-lops he’d invented, then looked directly at me as if I could save him somehow, and when I made a helpless shrug, Teeter shut his mouth and dropped his head, mortified by the attention he was receiving.
    As we waited for dessert, Annette Gordon swung to Sugar.
    â€œI understand you’re a private eye.”
    Annette was half the age of most of us at the table but seemed perfectly at ease directing the show. She had the casual moxie of a big-city girl who thrived in far more sophis-ticated circles.
    â€œSam Spade was a private eye,” Sugar said. “My world is a little duller.”
    Annette prodded until Sugar gave in and told them about his latest case.
    For several weeks this past fall, he’d trailed Julie Ship-man, the runaway daughter of a Delta pilot. Julie was six-teen, had stolen her daddy’s Porsche, and made it to Atlanta, where the trail went cold. Sugar shoe-leathered the city for weeks, finally found a strip club where the girl had worked, and got the name of a bouncer who’d seduced Julie and whisked her off to Seattle for the dreamy life of a call girl. It took only two days in Seattle before Sugar located the agency she’d hired on with. He called and requested her by her description. Julie showed up in his hotel in a miniskirt with a bruise on her cheek—ready to perform.
    Eight weeks start to finish. The girl despised Sugarman for dragging her home and made nasty claims about him taking sexual advantage in that Seattle motel room. Now the pilot was trying to chisel Sugar out of his fee, saying the shrink bills were eating him alive and his airline had gone into chapter eleven. Then he used his daughter’s lies to threaten Sugar with legal action.
    Sugar would’ve done the job for free, but now the thing was a point of honor, so he was heading to court.
    Mona leaned forward, planted her elbows on the table, and angled her head to look past me at Sugar.
    â€œSo, Mr. Sugarman?” Her voice was low and husky as though these might be the first words she’d spoken in days. “You ever kill anybody?”
    In the prickly silence Sugar fetched for an answer.
    Then Annette plunged in.
    â€œWhat I want to know, Mr. Sugarman, are you any good? Do you always get your man? Or lady, as the case may be?”
    â€œI’m okay,” Sugar said. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m persistent.”
    â€œI love those detective shows with the high-tech gadgets, those cool tweezers to pick up