Read Online Play It Again by Stephen Humphrey Bogart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Humphrey Bogart
Tags: Mystery
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was no listing for a Casey but R.J. found a K.C. Wingate on Houston Street in the Village. Close enough, he thought. Probably hates the name Katherine. It had to be Katherine.
Just to be sure he called the receptionist at Independent Productions. “Hi, this is personnel services,” he said in a light and breezy voice. “We’re updating the files. Can you confirm the current home address of your K.C. Wingate? At 159 Houston Street?”
“One moment please,” the cool British voice said. A moment later the Muzak clicked off and the Brit said, “That is the correct address.”
“Thanks. Bye!” said R.J. and hung up.
He figured she was the type to work late, but he’d been wrong before. So he had her doorway staked out by four o’clock. At eight-thirty he was still there.
He’d been propositioned three times, twice by men and once by a woman who should have been working the docks, with her tiny tube top and tight black skirt. She looked almost blue in the cold, so thin a good wind would blow her across the river to Jersey.
He’d seen eleven people walking dogs. Thirty-two kids went by, nineteen of them with a parent or nanny.
One time, at about a quarter of eight, a drunk stepped into the doorway where R.J. was standing. The man unzipped his fly before he saw R.J. Then he stood there with his hand in his pants, blinking stupidly.
“Sorry,” R.J. told him. “This stall is in use.”
The drunk staggered backward and disappeared down the sidewalk, hand still in his pants.
R.J. sympathized with the man. He had to pee so bad his ears were ringing, and he was about to give up the whole thing as a bad idea at a quarter to nine, when a taxi stopped in front of her door and Casey got out. As she paid the driver, R.J. crossed the street and stepped over beside her.
“Where in hell have you been?” he asked her.
She gave a little jump, then turned to face him. “Looking for you,” she said coolly.
R.J. was startled, but he believed she was telling the truth and not just smart-mouthing him. This woman had a lot of moxie.
The cab pulled away and Casey looked him in the eye. “Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what did you have in mind?”
A raindrop hit R.J.’s forehead. He glanced up. There were plenty more where that one came from. “Listen, can we talk someplace? This is about to get a little wetter than I like it.” He meant the rain, but if he didn’t find a bathroom soon it would be even wetter.
She looked at him hard for a moment. “All right. Come on up.” She turned toward the door, pulling a large key ring out of her shoulder bag.
Casey’s apartment was on the third floor at the back. It had a lot of space for a New York apartment, but not much view. R.J. could just make out a warehouse about eight feet away through the only window he could see.
There were a couple of very nice prints on the wall; a little too modern for R.J.’s taste, but good stuff.
He got Casey’s permission to use her bathroom, and he barely managed not to run down the short hall. He came back feeling a great deal better.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked him.
R.J. looked over the sparsely furnished open room. A few small rugs were scattered on the hardwood floor, and there was a large bookcase with very few open spaces on it.
“Were you really looking for me?”
“I said I was.”
R.J. spotted a canvas-backed director’s chair and sank into it. “Why?”
Casey tossed her shoulder bag onto a low black couch with a steel frame and started to shrug out of her raincoat. “Same reason you were looking for me, I’m sure.”
“Sure, I like that. And what would that be?”
She blew out a long breath and planted herself in front of him. “Can we cut the crap, Brooks? I’ve got something you want, and I want something from you too. That’s a pretty good starting place. Instead of dicking around, we could be working it out already.”
R.J. had never liked aggressive women, but he
Just to be sure he called the receptionist at Independent Productions. “Hi, this is personnel services,” he said in a light and breezy voice. “We’re updating the files. Can you confirm the current home address of your K.C. Wingate? At 159 Houston Street?”
“One moment please,” the cool British voice said. A moment later the Muzak clicked off and the Brit said, “That is the correct address.”
“Thanks. Bye!” said R.J. and hung up.
He figured she was the type to work late, but he’d been wrong before. So he had her doorway staked out by four o’clock. At eight-thirty he was still there.
He’d been propositioned three times, twice by men and once by a woman who should have been working the docks, with her tiny tube top and tight black skirt. She looked almost blue in the cold, so thin a good wind would blow her across the river to Jersey.
He’d seen eleven people walking dogs. Thirty-two kids went by, nineteen of them with a parent or nanny.
One time, at about a quarter of eight, a drunk stepped into the doorway where R.J. was standing. The man unzipped his fly before he saw R.J. Then he stood there with his hand in his pants, blinking stupidly.
“Sorry,” R.J. told him. “This stall is in use.”
The drunk staggered backward and disappeared down the sidewalk, hand still in his pants.
R.J. sympathized with the man. He had to pee so bad his ears were ringing, and he was about to give up the whole thing as a bad idea at a quarter to nine, when a taxi stopped in front of her door and Casey got out. As she paid the driver, R.J. crossed the street and stepped over beside her.
“Where in hell have you been?” he asked her.
She gave a little jump, then turned to face him. “Looking for you,” she said coolly.
R.J. was startled, but he believed she was telling the truth and not just smart-mouthing him. This woman had a lot of moxie.
The cab pulled away and Casey looked him in the eye. “Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what did you have in mind?”
A raindrop hit R.J.’s forehead. He glanced up. There were plenty more where that one came from. “Listen, can we talk someplace? This is about to get a little wetter than I like it.” He meant the rain, but if he didn’t find a bathroom soon it would be even wetter.
She looked at him hard for a moment. “All right. Come on up.” She turned toward the door, pulling a large key ring out of her shoulder bag.
Casey’s apartment was on the third floor at the back. It had a lot of space for a New York apartment, but not much view. R.J. could just make out a warehouse about eight feet away through the only window he could see.
There were a couple of very nice prints on the wall; a little too modern for R.J.’s taste, but good stuff.
He got Casey’s permission to use her bathroom, and he barely managed not to run down the short hall. He came back feeling a great deal better.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked him.
R.J. looked over the sparsely furnished open room. A few small rugs were scattered on the hardwood floor, and there was a large bookcase with very few open spaces on it.
“Were you really looking for me?”
“I said I was.”
R.J. spotted a canvas-backed director’s chair and sank into it. “Why?”
Casey tossed her shoulder bag onto a low black couch with a steel frame and started to shrug out of her raincoat. “Same reason you were looking for me, I’m sure.”
“Sure, I like that. And what would that be?”
She blew out a long breath and planted herself in front of him. “Can we cut the crap, Brooks? I’ve got something you want, and I want something from you too. That’s a pretty good starting place. Instead of dicking around, we could be working it out already.”
R.J. had never liked aggressive women, but he
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