Read Online Motor City Blue by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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atop a long, skinny neck and wrists that protruded several inches out of the sleeves of his warm-up jacket. He said something about my mother in an Erskine Street drawl and started to push me.
That’s how it always starts, with a push. Most of us learn that in grammar school and some of us never get over it. When he thrust his big palms against my chest, I took advantage of the opening and gave him as much knee in the groin as I could afford without sacrificing my balance. It was enough. He exhaled a double lungful of stale marijuana into my face and jackknifed.
Among the others there was a moment of shocked indecision. Then a short, chunky black with a firmly rounded belly, Jeff to the other’s Mutt, rushed me, arms outstretched to take me in the bear-hug that appeared to be his specialty. I sidestepped him and gave him a judo kick in the well-upholstered seat of his pants that sent his woolly head crashing into the building’s block corner. The plate glass window shivered but didn’t fall apart. Neither did Fatty, but not for lack of effort on the part of heels suddenly gone round as he staggered aimlessly across the littered sidewalk.
That left two I hadn’t tried, but they had to wait their turn. The beanpole I’d kneed had recovered himself, and now he went for the pocket of his jacket.
The switchblade darted from the steel and plastic handle like a serpent’s tongue and jiggled up and down lightly in his hand with the confidence of a sixth finger. A grin that didn’t remind me much of Cab Calloway spread across his face as he watched my reaction. Then he lunged.
The blade scraped some fiber off my coat as I threw myself hard against the other side of the entrance niche. I moved to kick him as I had Fatty, but he anticipated that and twisted as he went past. My foot scuffed his pocket, nothing more. He came up against the door with a shuddering bang.
The years between me and my last workout on the mats were offset to a degree by the mild narcotic in his system, but he had youth and reach on me. It was time to stop playing. As he came away from the door, I fisted my Smith & Wesson and sent three pounds of steel, bone, and flesh smashing into his grin. It gave way with an audible crunch; he slammed into the door once again, and dribbled down it like Pepto-Bismol.
My fist was beginning to ache when I turned the revolver around and Wyatt-Earped my way through the ominously growling knot of toughs to my car. As I pulled away from the hydrant I got a hinge of Lee Q. Story watching me through the display window. His expression put me in mind of a fight manager who had laid everything he had on the wrong guy.
On St. Antoine I took advantage of a stoplight to study the list Story had given me. Then I crumpled it and tossed it to the floorboards. The one name I wanted would be the one he hadn’t written down. For that I’d have to wait.
8
I WAS HITTING ALL the red lights today, which was okay since I didn’t know where to go and was in no hurry to get there. At the next stop I broke out the batteries I’d bought at Story’s and replaced the old ones in the pencil-like paging device I wear clipped to my inside breast pocket. It was a struggle; the knuckles of my right hand were burst and bleeding and the fingers were beginning to stiffen. I barely got everything screwed back together when the damn thing started beeping.
I made it to a public telephone between the repairman and the neighborhood vandal and got the girl at my service, who bawled me out for not answering the page half an hour sooner and gave me Barry Stackpole’s private number at the News. He stabbed it halfway through the first ring.
“We lucked out, shamus,” he said, after I had identified myself. “Thursday, January twenty-fifth, a couple of days after the GOP picked Detroit for next year’s convention. The city council put the cops to work scouring the red light districts. We had a photographer on it. If that isn’t your girl
That’s how it always starts, with a push. Most of us learn that in grammar school and some of us never get over it. When he thrust his big palms against my chest, I took advantage of the opening and gave him as much knee in the groin as I could afford without sacrificing my balance. It was enough. He exhaled a double lungful of stale marijuana into my face and jackknifed.
Among the others there was a moment of shocked indecision. Then a short, chunky black with a firmly rounded belly, Jeff to the other’s Mutt, rushed me, arms outstretched to take me in the bear-hug that appeared to be his specialty. I sidestepped him and gave him a judo kick in the well-upholstered seat of his pants that sent his woolly head crashing into the building’s block corner. The plate glass window shivered but didn’t fall apart. Neither did Fatty, but not for lack of effort on the part of heels suddenly gone round as he staggered aimlessly across the littered sidewalk.
That left two I hadn’t tried, but they had to wait their turn. The beanpole I’d kneed had recovered himself, and now he went for the pocket of his jacket.
The switchblade darted from the steel and plastic handle like a serpent’s tongue and jiggled up and down lightly in his hand with the confidence of a sixth finger. A grin that didn’t remind me much of Cab Calloway spread across his face as he watched my reaction. Then he lunged.
The blade scraped some fiber off my coat as I threw myself hard against the other side of the entrance niche. I moved to kick him as I had Fatty, but he anticipated that and twisted as he went past. My foot scuffed his pocket, nothing more. He came up against the door with a shuddering bang.
The years between me and my last workout on the mats were offset to a degree by the mild narcotic in his system, but he had youth and reach on me. It was time to stop playing. As he came away from the door, I fisted my Smith & Wesson and sent three pounds of steel, bone, and flesh smashing into his grin. It gave way with an audible crunch; he slammed into the door once again, and dribbled down it like Pepto-Bismol.
My fist was beginning to ache when I turned the revolver around and Wyatt-Earped my way through the ominously growling knot of toughs to my car. As I pulled away from the hydrant I got a hinge of Lee Q. Story watching me through the display window. His expression put me in mind of a fight manager who had laid everything he had on the wrong guy.
On St. Antoine I took advantage of a stoplight to study the list Story had given me. Then I crumpled it and tossed it to the floorboards. The one name I wanted would be the one he hadn’t written down. For that I’d have to wait.
8
I WAS HITTING ALL the red lights today, which was okay since I didn’t know where to go and was in no hurry to get there. At the next stop I broke out the batteries I’d bought at Story’s and replaced the old ones in the pencil-like paging device I wear clipped to my inside breast pocket. It was a struggle; the knuckles of my right hand were burst and bleeding and the fingers were beginning to stiffen. I barely got everything screwed back together when the damn thing started beeping.
I made it to a public telephone between the repairman and the neighborhood vandal and got the girl at my service, who bawled me out for not answering the page half an hour sooner and gave me Barry Stackpole’s private number at the News. He stabbed it halfway through the first ring.
“We lucked out, shamus,” he said, after I had identified myself. “Thursday, January twenty-fifth, a couple of days after the GOP picked Detroit for next year’s convention. The city council put the cops to work scouring the red light districts. We had a photographer on it. If that isn’t your girl
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