Read Online Motor City Blue by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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an “Out to Lunch” sign on the door to a McDonald’s. I approached him.
“Lee Story?”
“Lee Q. Story.” He didn’t look up.
“Sorry. I’m told you wholesale.”
My reflection came up to meet me in the mirrored cheaters. “Who’s asking?” He turned down a corner of the page he’d been reading and laid the book aside.
“Andy Jackson.” I waved a shopworn twenty under his nose.
I couldn’t tell if he was looking at the bill. Lamont Cranston would have trouble reading a man’s thoughts behind those Foster Grants. “You a pig or something?”
The guy over in fairyland overheard him and strode swiftly past me out the door, fat legs working despite the hobbles of his calf-length coat.
“Or something.” I put the double sawbuck on the counter and hauled out my wallet, flipping it open to the license and sheriff’s buzzer. When he’d had an eyeful I returned it to my pocket and planted the more interesting of the two pictures Morningstar had given me atop the twenty.
“Maybe you could see it better minus the shades,” I suggested.
He had wide-set eyes with pupils that reacted slowly when they were exposed to the light. He was a user, all right. He barely glanced at the photo.
“I seen it before, man. That what you wanted?” He reached for the bill. I speared his wrist.
“What I want is the name of the person who saw it before you did,” I said.
“I done told somebody else I don’t know.” That gave him an idea. “Say, we working for the same boss?”
“Not hardly. I want a list of your picture sources.”
“Is that all?” Acidly. “Look, man, I got people to answer to. Leggo my hand.”
I held on. “How long can it take to jot down some names? Five minutes? That’s two hundred and forty an hour. Henry Ford, Jr. doesn’t pay that. Senators don’t make that much in graft.” He still looked doubtful. “The people you answer to have people to answer to,” I added. “I answer to them.”
Whatever the hell that meant, it hooked him. I raised my hand and he withdrew his, leaving behind the green.
“Second.” He swiveled to face a small desk beneath the display window strewn with grainy snaps like the one I’d shown him, snatched a pen from a glass of them, and spent some minutes scribbling on the back of a page from a large receipt book. Then he tore it off and spun around on his stool. He passed it over with his right, grabbing the bill with his left at the same time.
There were thirteen names on the sheet, a few of which I recognized. I pocketed it, along with a blister card from a display of stick batteries on the counter “For the Junior Miss Vibrator,” and gave him a dollar, telling him to keep the change. He rang it up without asking questions.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“You been a pig somewhere down the string, man.” He looked exasperated. “You wring a buck till Washington sweats.”
“MP,” I said. “Three years, after Nam and Cambodia.”
“You was in Nam?”
“Were you?”
“Damn near. I done a year in Leavenworth for lighting a joint with my draft card.”
I tapped the picture. “There’s a piece of paper tacked to the door in this shot. Could be a list of rules and checkout times. Which of your sources works in a hotel or a motel?”
“Which of them don’t? This ain’t L.A.”
“How about the girl? Know her?”
“Man, they all look alike with their threads off.”
“Give me back my twenty. I don’t buy crap.”
His bony face twisted into a mask. “Get out of my place, honky.”
When I didn’t move he reached beneath the counter and clanked a battered .22 with a seven-inch barrel down on top of it. I moved.
The youths were still gathered around the door when I stepped out. I moved to pass them. They moved with me. I shifted in the other direction. They went the same way. There were four of them. One, who acted a half-beat ahead of his companions, was a tall, rangy eager-type with a small head and too much untended afro
“Lee Story?”
“Lee Q. Story.” He didn’t look up.
“Sorry. I’m told you wholesale.”
My reflection came up to meet me in the mirrored cheaters. “Who’s asking?” He turned down a corner of the page he’d been reading and laid the book aside.
“Andy Jackson.” I waved a shopworn twenty under his nose.
I couldn’t tell if he was looking at the bill. Lamont Cranston would have trouble reading a man’s thoughts behind those Foster Grants. “You a pig or something?”
The guy over in fairyland overheard him and strode swiftly past me out the door, fat legs working despite the hobbles of his calf-length coat.
“Or something.” I put the double sawbuck on the counter and hauled out my wallet, flipping it open to the license and sheriff’s buzzer. When he’d had an eyeful I returned it to my pocket and planted the more interesting of the two pictures Morningstar had given me atop the twenty.
“Maybe you could see it better minus the shades,” I suggested.
He had wide-set eyes with pupils that reacted slowly when they were exposed to the light. He was a user, all right. He barely glanced at the photo.
“I seen it before, man. That what you wanted?” He reached for the bill. I speared his wrist.
“What I want is the name of the person who saw it before you did,” I said.
“I done told somebody else I don’t know.” That gave him an idea. “Say, we working for the same boss?”
“Not hardly. I want a list of your picture sources.”
“Is that all?” Acidly. “Look, man, I got people to answer to. Leggo my hand.”
I held on. “How long can it take to jot down some names? Five minutes? That’s two hundred and forty an hour. Henry Ford, Jr. doesn’t pay that. Senators don’t make that much in graft.” He still looked doubtful. “The people you answer to have people to answer to,” I added. “I answer to them.”
Whatever the hell that meant, it hooked him. I raised my hand and he withdrew his, leaving behind the green.
“Second.” He swiveled to face a small desk beneath the display window strewn with grainy snaps like the one I’d shown him, snatched a pen from a glass of them, and spent some minutes scribbling on the back of a page from a large receipt book. Then he tore it off and spun around on his stool. He passed it over with his right, grabbing the bill with his left at the same time.
There were thirteen names on the sheet, a few of which I recognized. I pocketed it, along with a blister card from a display of stick batteries on the counter “For the Junior Miss Vibrator,” and gave him a dollar, telling him to keep the change. He rang it up without asking questions.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“You been a pig somewhere down the string, man.” He looked exasperated. “You wring a buck till Washington sweats.”
“MP,” I said. “Three years, after Nam and Cambodia.”
“You was in Nam?”
“Were you?”
“Damn near. I done a year in Leavenworth for lighting a joint with my draft card.”
I tapped the picture. “There’s a piece of paper tacked to the door in this shot. Could be a list of rules and checkout times. Which of your sources works in a hotel or a motel?”
“Which of them don’t? This ain’t L.A.”
“How about the girl? Know her?”
“Man, they all look alike with their threads off.”
“Give me back my twenty. I don’t buy crap.”
His bony face twisted into a mask. “Get out of my place, honky.”
When I didn’t move he reached beneath the counter and clanked a battered .22 with a seven-inch barrel down on top of it. I moved.
The youths were still gathered around the door when I stepped out. I moved to pass them. They moved with me. I shifted in the other direction. They went the same way. There were four of them. One, who acted a half-beat ahead of his companions, was a tall, rangy eager-type with a small head and too much untended afro
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