Read Online Huckleberry Fiend by Julie Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Smith
Tags: detective, Contemporary, Mystery, Hard-Boiled, Contemporary Fiction, Edgar winner, San Francisco, amateur detective, Humorous mystery, private investigator, murder mystery, mystery series, mystery and thrillers, PI, thriller and suspense, Detective Thrillers, literary mystery, detective mysteries, Mark Twain, Julie Smith
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publishing corporation. Surely an irreplaceable literary treasure was as important as a newspaper story. So couldn’t I act on my own?
That didn’t get me anywhere because I knew I wasn’t going to be acting on my own and wouldn’t in any case. Without Booker, there was simply no possibility that I would break into Isami Nakamura’s house for any reason.
The question was a thicket of thorns and I decided not to pursue it a millimeter further. The plain fact was that, since I didn’t think anyone could get hurt and some good might actually be done in the long run, I could justify the burglary to myself in a dim way. Barely. And so I was going to do it.
Why did I want to? For the same reason I’d been a reporter, probably. Sardis liked to call me an experience junkie and I guess I was, in a way. I would do just about anything once if it wasn’t dangerous, illegal, or immoral. And some things, apparently, that were all three.
Booker gave Isami a call. “Damn answering machines. With people screening their calls, it’s hell to case jobs any more.” He sighed. “But she doesn’t answer, so let’s go on over.”
“Should I wear anything special?”
“You mean like jeans, black sweater, and stocking mask? I don’t usually, but it can’t hurt. Don’t forget gloves, though.”
I certainly wasn’t going to trouble Sardis for a stocking, so that settled that.
Not even a porch light was on when we arrived. Perhaps Isami was still staying with a friend. Booker gave me the OK sign, but walked around the house anyway, listening for tiny noises. We’d stopped for a bite and it was now about nine-thirty, so I figured if she was out for the evening, she wouldn’t be back for a while. Booker was a little nervous— people sometimes came home right after dinner, he said. But he thought she’d have left a light or two on if she planned to.
He’d gotten in a half-open bathroom window Friday night. By now, he figured, she’d have burglar-proofed— people usually did that after a break-in. But no problem— his collection of keys would get us in the back door in a trice. While he worked, I held a penlight.
“What do you do,” I whispered, “when I’m not here?”
“Teeth,” he said. “Or sometimes nothing. I’ve got a pretty good sense of touch.”
When the lock finally moved, he sighed deeply and sensuously, like someone tasting honey and nectar. We closed the door behind us and cased the rooms quickly, making double sure no one was home. The curtains hadn’t been closed and there was enough light to see the living room. It was furnished in the makeshift way of people who aren’t home much and don’t care to be. The sofa was old, looked secondhand, and hadn’t been very nice to begin with. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs in a similar condition and one rattan one that didn’t go with anything else. A few Cosmos and Vogues had been tossed into a basket, but there wasn’t a sign of a book, and there was hardly any place to hide anything. Quickly, Booker looked under the cushions and moved on.
I wanted to stop and go through the bathroom cabinets, but he nudged me towards Isami’s room. “The plan is to get in and out fast,” he said. “You know how long the average burglary takes? Forty seconds. But of course that’s just the hit-and-run grab-the-stereo kind. We could be here as long as ten minutes.” He turned his penlight on as we reached a bedroom threshold. “Get this.”
The curtains were pink-checked and so was the bedspread. On the bed was an extensive teddy bear collection. The furniture was painted white, except for an old trunk, the sort in which college kids send off their clothes. It had been painted pink. “My dad’s girlfriend’s room,” said Booker. “I wonder what it’s like to make love in a bed with a dozen teddy bears.”
“Your dad’s a psychologist, isn’t he?”
“Not exactly. Psych professor.”
“She’s probably doing him a lot of good. You
That didn’t get me anywhere because I knew I wasn’t going to be acting on my own and wouldn’t in any case. Without Booker, there was simply no possibility that I would break into Isami Nakamura’s house for any reason.
The question was a thicket of thorns and I decided not to pursue it a millimeter further. The plain fact was that, since I didn’t think anyone could get hurt and some good might actually be done in the long run, I could justify the burglary to myself in a dim way. Barely. And so I was going to do it.
Why did I want to? For the same reason I’d been a reporter, probably. Sardis liked to call me an experience junkie and I guess I was, in a way. I would do just about anything once if it wasn’t dangerous, illegal, or immoral. And some things, apparently, that were all three.
Booker gave Isami a call. “Damn answering machines. With people screening their calls, it’s hell to case jobs any more.” He sighed. “But she doesn’t answer, so let’s go on over.”
“Should I wear anything special?”
“You mean like jeans, black sweater, and stocking mask? I don’t usually, but it can’t hurt. Don’t forget gloves, though.”
I certainly wasn’t going to trouble Sardis for a stocking, so that settled that.
Not even a porch light was on when we arrived. Perhaps Isami was still staying with a friend. Booker gave me the OK sign, but walked around the house anyway, listening for tiny noises. We’d stopped for a bite and it was now about nine-thirty, so I figured if she was out for the evening, she wouldn’t be back for a while. Booker was a little nervous— people sometimes came home right after dinner, he said. But he thought she’d have left a light or two on if she planned to.
He’d gotten in a half-open bathroom window Friday night. By now, he figured, she’d have burglar-proofed— people usually did that after a break-in. But no problem— his collection of keys would get us in the back door in a trice. While he worked, I held a penlight.
“What do you do,” I whispered, “when I’m not here?”
“Teeth,” he said. “Or sometimes nothing. I’ve got a pretty good sense of touch.”
When the lock finally moved, he sighed deeply and sensuously, like someone tasting honey and nectar. We closed the door behind us and cased the rooms quickly, making double sure no one was home. The curtains hadn’t been closed and there was enough light to see the living room. It was furnished in the makeshift way of people who aren’t home much and don’t care to be. The sofa was old, looked secondhand, and hadn’t been very nice to begin with. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs in a similar condition and one rattan one that didn’t go with anything else. A few Cosmos and Vogues had been tossed into a basket, but there wasn’t a sign of a book, and there was hardly any place to hide anything. Quickly, Booker looked under the cushions and moved on.
I wanted to stop and go through the bathroom cabinets, but he nudged me towards Isami’s room. “The plan is to get in and out fast,” he said. “You know how long the average burglary takes? Forty seconds. But of course that’s just the hit-and-run grab-the-stereo kind. We could be here as long as ten minutes.” He turned his penlight on as we reached a bedroom threshold. “Get this.”
The curtains were pink-checked and so was the bedspread. On the bed was an extensive teddy bear collection. The furniture was painted white, except for an old trunk, the sort in which college kids send off their clothes. It had been painted pink. “My dad’s girlfriend’s room,” said Booker. “I wonder what it’s like to make love in a bed with a dozen teddy bears.”
“Your dad’s a psychologist, isn’t he?”
“Not exactly. Psych professor.”
“She’s probably doing him a lot of good. You
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