Read Online Racked (A Lt. Jack Daniels / Nicholas Colt mystery) by J.A. Konrath, Jude Hardin - Free Book Online
Authors: J.A. Konrath, Jude Hardin
Tags: General Fiction
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THE PRIVATE EYE
2:04 P.M.
T here was blood on the floor.
And the walls.
And the ceiling.
I’d seen my share of fights at Kelly’s, but whatever happened last night must have been extreme. As I walked in, I stepped on a spot of it and almost lost my footing. I managed not to fall, and then made a beeline for the bar. I sat on a stool, reached behind the bartender’s garnish bin and grabbed one of those skinny little red straws to chew on. It helped keep my mind off cigarettes.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the place was dead. I was starting to think maybe all the employees were too when a twenty-something redhead stepped around the corner and asked me what I was having.
“You’re new here,” I said.
“Just started last week.”
“Did they tell you drinks are free from two to four every Friday?”
I winked at her. She winked back.
She wore tight black shorts and a Kelly’s t-shirt cut to expose the shiny gold thing in her belly button. Her nametag said Molly.
I handed her a business card. She looked at it, and then she tucked it into the back pocket of her shorts. She had really nice back pockets.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Colt.”
“You can call me Nicholas,” I said. “I’m a regular.”
“Well, maybe you need more fiber in your diet.”
A regular. Irregular. I got it. The joke wasn’t very funny, but I got it.
I laughed politely. “Maybe,” I said. “Let me get an Old Fitz on the rocks. Hold the Metamucil.”
She slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar, built the drink and set it in front of me.
“Anything else?” she said.
“No thanks. You by yourself this afternoon?”
“Rey’s in the kitchen. Let me know if you want something to eat.”
Rey Aquino had been peeling potatoes and cooking some incredible shepherd’s pie at Kelly’s for years. Good man. He’d bought me a shot of tequila more than once. He’d started taking some college classes recently, and was planning on getting a business degree. Said he wanted to have his own restaurant someday. Said it was his dream.
I took a sip of my drink.
“What’s with all the blood splatters?” I said. “Rowdy crowd last night?”
Molly smiled. “Think about what day it is.”
I thought about it. Nothing was ringing a bell.
I shrugged. “I give up. What day is it?”
She pointed to the chalkboard easel at the end of the bar. It said HAPPY HALLOWEEN .
“Big costume party tonight,” she said. “I’ve been squirting fake blood everywhere all morning. I used a super soaker squirt gun. I hope Anil isn’t mad, because I got it all over the place. Now I need to hang some spider webs and other decorations. Isn’t it great? Halloween is my favorite holiday.”
“Great.”
So great it had completely slipped my mind.
“Right now I’m trying to figure out a drink to put on special,” she said. “Any ideas?”
“Old Fitz on the rocks,” I said.
“You’re funny,” she said, her tone teetering between dubious and insincere. “No, I think it should be something tall and fruity. A rum drink, maybe. One of the distributers left us a box of those silly little paper umbrellas, and tonight might be a good night to unload a bunch of them.”
“Good luck with that. Is the table upstairs open?”
Most of the pool tables at Kelly’s are coin-op, the variety you can find at any dive in any part of the country. Beer stains, cigarette burns, spongy rails, warped cues. Those tables don’t interest me, but there’s a nine-foot Brunswick in a room on the second floor that Minnesota Fats once played on. It’s a professional table, clean as a virgin’s bathwater.
“We don’t open the upstairs until six,” Molly said.
“I know, but Anil usually—”
“Anyway, there’s already someone up there.”
“So much for not opening until six,” I said.
Molly walked over to the chalkboard and started writing the name of the drink special she’d decided on. “Well, this lady came in and ordered lunch a while ago,
2:04 P.M.
T here was blood on the floor.
And the walls.
And the ceiling.
I’d seen my share of fights at Kelly’s, but whatever happened last night must have been extreme. As I walked in, I stepped on a spot of it and almost lost my footing. I managed not to fall, and then made a beeline for the bar. I sat on a stool, reached behind the bartender’s garnish bin and grabbed one of those skinny little red straws to chew on. It helped keep my mind off cigarettes.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the place was dead. I was starting to think maybe all the employees were too when a twenty-something redhead stepped around the corner and asked me what I was having.
“You’re new here,” I said.
“Just started last week.”
“Did they tell you drinks are free from two to four every Friday?”
I winked at her. She winked back.
She wore tight black shorts and a Kelly’s t-shirt cut to expose the shiny gold thing in her belly button. Her nametag said Molly.
I handed her a business card. She looked at it, and then she tucked it into the back pocket of her shorts. She had really nice back pockets.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Colt.”
“You can call me Nicholas,” I said. “I’m a regular.”
“Well, maybe you need more fiber in your diet.”
A regular. Irregular. I got it. The joke wasn’t very funny, but I got it.
I laughed politely. “Maybe,” I said. “Let me get an Old Fitz on the rocks. Hold the Metamucil.”
She slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar, built the drink and set it in front of me.
“Anything else?” she said.
“No thanks. You by yourself this afternoon?”
“Rey’s in the kitchen. Let me know if you want something to eat.”
Rey Aquino had been peeling potatoes and cooking some incredible shepherd’s pie at Kelly’s for years. Good man. He’d bought me a shot of tequila more than once. He’d started taking some college classes recently, and was planning on getting a business degree. Said he wanted to have his own restaurant someday. Said it was his dream.
I took a sip of my drink.
“What’s with all the blood splatters?” I said. “Rowdy crowd last night?”
Molly smiled. “Think about what day it is.”
I thought about it. Nothing was ringing a bell.
I shrugged. “I give up. What day is it?”
She pointed to the chalkboard easel at the end of the bar. It said HAPPY HALLOWEEN .
“Big costume party tonight,” she said. “I’ve been squirting fake blood everywhere all morning. I used a super soaker squirt gun. I hope Anil isn’t mad, because I got it all over the place. Now I need to hang some spider webs and other decorations. Isn’t it great? Halloween is my favorite holiday.”
“Great.”
So great it had completely slipped my mind.
“Right now I’m trying to figure out a drink to put on special,” she said. “Any ideas?”
“Old Fitz on the rocks,” I said.
“You’re funny,” she said, her tone teetering between dubious and insincere. “No, I think it should be something tall and fruity. A rum drink, maybe. One of the distributers left us a box of those silly little paper umbrellas, and tonight might be a good night to unload a bunch of them.”
“Good luck with that. Is the table upstairs open?”
Most of the pool tables at Kelly’s are coin-op, the variety you can find at any dive in any part of the country. Beer stains, cigarette burns, spongy rails, warped cues. Those tables don’t interest me, but there’s a nine-foot Brunswick in a room on the second floor that Minnesota Fats once played on. It’s a professional table, clean as a virgin’s bathwater.
“We don’t open the upstairs until six,” Molly said.
“I know, but Anil usually—”
“Anyway, there’s already someone up there.”
“So much for not opening until six,” I said.
Molly walked over to the chalkboard and started writing the name of the drink special she’d decided on. “Well, this lady came in and ordered lunch a while ago,
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