Read Online Pale Shadow by Robert Skinner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Skinner
Ads: Link
toward her in a smooth, soundless glide. He was grinning when she looked up, saw his face, and gave a single, ululating scream.
***
A ray of daylight, filtered through the dusty, ragged curtain on the window, dropped across Martinezâs face, bringing sweat out on his forehead. He squirmed out of it, turning on his side. The damage was done, however. The movement brought him out of the stupor heâd finally fallen into the night before.
As he gradually came awake, the memory of what had happened elbowed its way to the front of his consciousness, reminding him of the trouble he was in. He forced himself up on his elbows, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A flash of sharp pain shot through his temples and he grabbed his head, groaning.
A sour belch forced its way up his throat and out between his clenched teeth. He got up and walked unsteadily to the toilet, just making it before he vomited up a mess of bourbon and yellow bile. The retching almost tore the top of his head off, but eventually the pain subsided. He looked at himself in the mirror to see that the face staring back was that of a worn-out
mestizo
, not the sharp operator who had always known the right answer, always been standing somewhere else when the axe fell on someone less lucky.
With shaking fingers, he tore off his wrinkled, sweat-stained clothing then ran cold water in the basin as he stooped painfully over it. He cupped his hands and rubbed his face over and over with the cold water, drinking every other handful, swishing it around in his mouth to cut the scummy taste on his tongue.
He found his toothbrush and can of Pepsodent tooth powder, using them until the foul taste in his mouth diminished. That done, he turned on the hot-water tap until the sink was filled with scalding hot water. With the washcloth and soap heâd gotten from the deskman, he systematically washed himself from head to foot, rinsing with cool water. He found his razor and shaving soap, and very carefully shaved himself. His mustache needed trimming, but he let that go.
When he was clean, he went through his bag and chose a pale blue shirt with a soft collar, fresh underwear and socks and a light gray tropical wool suit.
The soiled clothing he wrapped into a bundle and dumped in the wastebasket. He had no time for laundry. He closed his valise, put on his hat then left the room. The desk wasnât occupied when he reached the lobby, so he dropped the room key on the counter before leaving the building.
He saw from his watch that it was a few minutes past 7:00. Magazine Street was quiet, only a few cars passing through at low speeds and a couple of pedestrians hurrying to work across the street from him. There was a feeling of peacefulness about the neighborhood that made him want to stay and enjoy it, but he knew better. He walked across the street to his Mercury and quickly drove away.
As he drove, he considered his options. If he went to the cops, he could make a deal for his cooperation, but would still serve time in a Federal pen. Heâd never been in jail in his life, and knew he couldnât stand to be locked up for years. If he gave the plates back to Compasso, heâd be admitting defeat and submitting to execution. All that was left was to make war.
There were the plates to consider, too. Four blocks of chrome-plated nickel, each representing several months of work by a master engraver. He had them wrapped up and tucked under the spare tire in his trunk. Even if Compasso got to him, Martinez was determined to deny him the plates.
He drove into Downtown and parked in front of the railroad depot at South Rampart and Girod. Even at that early hour, there were enough people for him to comfortably blend in. He rummaged in his glove compartment until he found a small pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote one sentence in neat block letters:
Ozzyâkeep safe until I comeâLuis
He retrieved the cardboard package containing the plates and
***
A ray of daylight, filtered through the dusty, ragged curtain on the window, dropped across Martinezâs face, bringing sweat out on his forehead. He squirmed out of it, turning on his side. The damage was done, however. The movement brought him out of the stupor heâd finally fallen into the night before.
As he gradually came awake, the memory of what had happened elbowed its way to the front of his consciousness, reminding him of the trouble he was in. He forced himself up on his elbows, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A flash of sharp pain shot through his temples and he grabbed his head, groaning.
A sour belch forced its way up his throat and out between his clenched teeth. He got up and walked unsteadily to the toilet, just making it before he vomited up a mess of bourbon and yellow bile. The retching almost tore the top of his head off, but eventually the pain subsided. He looked at himself in the mirror to see that the face staring back was that of a worn-out
mestizo
, not the sharp operator who had always known the right answer, always been standing somewhere else when the axe fell on someone less lucky.
With shaking fingers, he tore off his wrinkled, sweat-stained clothing then ran cold water in the basin as he stooped painfully over it. He cupped his hands and rubbed his face over and over with the cold water, drinking every other handful, swishing it around in his mouth to cut the scummy taste on his tongue.
He found his toothbrush and can of Pepsodent tooth powder, using them until the foul taste in his mouth diminished. That done, he turned on the hot-water tap until the sink was filled with scalding hot water. With the washcloth and soap heâd gotten from the deskman, he systematically washed himself from head to foot, rinsing with cool water. He found his razor and shaving soap, and very carefully shaved himself. His mustache needed trimming, but he let that go.
When he was clean, he went through his bag and chose a pale blue shirt with a soft collar, fresh underwear and socks and a light gray tropical wool suit.
The soiled clothing he wrapped into a bundle and dumped in the wastebasket. He had no time for laundry. He closed his valise, put on his hat then left the room. The desk wasnât occupied when he reached the lobby, so he dropped the room key on the counter before leaving the building.
He saw from his watch that it was a few minutes past 7:00. Magazine Street was quiet, only a few cars passing through at low speeds and a couple of pedestrians hurrying to work across the street from him. There was a feeling of peacefulness about the neighborhood that made him want to stay and enjoy it, but he knew better. He walked across the street to his Mercury and quickly drove away.
As he drove, he considered his options. If he went to the cops, he could make a deal for his cooperation, but would still serve time in a Federal pen. Heâd never been in jail in his life, and knew he couldnât stand to be locked up for years. If he gave the plates back to Compasso, heâd be admitting defeat and submitting to execution. All that was left was to make war.
There were the plates to consider, too. Four blocks of chrome-plated nickel, each representing several months of work by a master engraver. He had them wrapped up and tucked under the spare tire in his trunk. Even if Compasso got to him, Martinez was determined to deny him the plates.
He drove into Downtown and parked in front of the railroad depot at South Rampart and Girod. Even at that early hour, there were enough people for him to comfortably blend in. He rummaged in his glove compartment until he found a small pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote one sentence in neat block letters:
Ozzyâkeep safe until I comeâLuis
He retrieved the cardboard package containing the plates and
Similar Books
