Read Online Redhanded by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online

yellow crayon hair knew a world I had seen only on TV, a landscape of handguns and street cops. I wanted him to like me.
    â€œHe’s not going to sit down in my car,” said Chad, in an explanatory tone walking over to Raymond and handing him a set of car keys.
    Raymond shot me a warning look.
    â€œWhy not?” asked Chad. “Afraid it doesn’t have seat belts? Afraid the brakes don’t work?”
    Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don’t. I kept my mouth shut.
    Chad smiled.
    â€œYour friend is a smart man,” he told Raymond.
    I felt a flush of pleasure.
    Smart man .
    A shaggy brown dog, part sheltie, had been making his way stiffly along the sidewalk. The dog nosed the air, scenting the Doberman perhaps, and doubtfully eyeing Raymond and me.
    Chad held out his hand and called to it. The old dog gimped all the way to him and licked the air hopefully.
    Chad took a moment, talking to the dog in a quiet voice, caressing it gently.
    Then he turned to the two of us and said, “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Chad told Raymond to drive the Pontiac north on 1-80.
    The traffic was backed up close to the Bay Bridge, but Chad looked out at the lanes of slow traffic, nodding like someone who heard music in his head, sitting in the passenger side of the front seat.
    When we passed a Highway Patrol unit that was stopped to help a stranded car, Chad watched the patrolman until he had to turn his head as we passed. Chad caught my eye and made a pistol with his fingers, and a series of soft, plosive reports in the direction of the highway cop.
    We took an off ramp and drove along San Pablo Avenue. It was a sunny afternoon, and when Chad saw young women waiting for the light to change, hurrying along the crosswalk, he called them “jailbait” and “split tails.”
    I am always embarrassed or irritated by guys who talk trash about women, and I wondered why Chad felt he had to make such comments.
    â€œYou can’t even trust a bitch to make it across the street,” Chad said as a woman with a limp made us wait, slow to get out of the crosswalk as the light turned green.
    I could sense Raymond trying to flash me a glance in the rearview mirror, wanting to know what I was making of all this, half hopeful, half nervous. Raymond wanted me to say something, but I wasn’t ready.
    â€œMy brother’s wife is talking about divorcing him,” said Chad. “Can’t wait for him to get out of prison, has to cut and run.”
    I said that I was sorry to hear that, glad I had kept my mouth shut until now.
    â€œShe used to be okay,” Chad said, in a tone of regret. “She told me all about stream fishing, fishing lures, fly casting. She knew all about trout.”
    I was about to ask if he liked to fish, just to ease the conversation away from a painful subject.
    â€œLook at these storefronts,” Chad said abruptly. “Check cashing places, liquor stores, asking for trouble. Begging for it, some reason to make their insurance pay off. They have low-surveillance security, and rent-a-cops too slow to work for the post office.”
    Maybe Chad could hear my unasked question.
    â€œI can’t scout these sites all by myself,” he said. “And get my face recorded in the video. If word got back to my brother, he’d have me killed, just to teach me a lesson. We need someone fresh.”
    He looked back at me and winked. “Can’t you smell that money?”
    I gave a little half laugh, so both of them knew I thought Chad was just fooling around.
    We stopped at Nation’s Hamburgers on San Pablo, right across from a furniture store, big windows with leather sofas and pretty little coffee tables.
    Chad insisted on sitting in a booth. “One over there, with a view of the parking lot,” he told the woman at the counter.
    The three of us waited until a booth was vacated by three very short, dark-haired men, one of them with a yellow