Read Online Speak the Dead by Grant McKenzie - Free Book Online Page A

the older voice returned. “Bring her home. We’ll be waiting.”

13
    J ersey’s phone rang as he and Amarela wound their way out of the suburban maze of Maywood Park in an effort to avoid the traffic jam that made up the interstate.
    The locals liked to blame the continual congestion on the Canadians as they flooded across the border into Washington and down through Oregon to California in a greedy blitz for bargains and sunshine. But from what Jersey could see, most of the license plates still boasted Pacific Northwest roots.
    When Jersey answered the phone, a nasally voice—the kind that only comes from repeated blunt-force trauma—said, “Did you break into my club?”
    â€œNow why would I do that, Les?”
    â€œTo get the CCTV footage. You called about it.”
    â€œIf I was going to break into your club why would I call first?”
    Les grunted. “Yeah, okay. Well someone did. The back door was kicked open and my computer don’t work.”
    â€œThe surveillance footage is on the computer?”
    â€œYeah, ’course, that’s why I bought the damn thing. VCRs are for shit.”
    â€œI’ll stop by and take a look. I know a thing or two about computers.”
    â€œFigured you would,” Les said. “You got that geek vibe about you.”
    Jersey turned to Amarela. “Can you drop me off at the club and do the NOK without me?”
    â€œAh, shit, Jers,” Amarela whined. “You know I hate that job. People get so damn emotional, and clingy and snotty… always with the snot, you notice that?”
    Amarela actually had a good whine: all pouty lips and large eyes and the ever-present hint of sex if you did her bidding. Fortunately, it hadn’t taken Jersey five years to become immune. The first two were tough though.
    â€œAnd what?” Jersey argued. “I like it?”
    â€œNo, but people take it better from you. You’ve got that cuddliness about you.”
    â€œCuddliness?”
    â€œYeah, you know? They see me, they think ‘skinny bitch with a great ass has it all going on’, but they see you and—”
    â€œThey think ‘fat fool with a decent ass doesn’t have a clue.’”
    Amarela grinned. “No, I’m not saying… it’s just people naturally trust you more.”
    â€œCause I’m cuddly?”
    â€œBecause you appear cuddly. People don’t want to cuddle me.”
    â€œNo, they want to—”
    â€œDon’t!”
    Jersey sneered without malice. “Suck it up and drop me at the club. I ain’t nobody’s teddy bear.”
    Jersey pressed the power button on the PC.
    â€œI tried that,” Les grumbled. “What, you think I’m a moron?”
    Les had been owner/manager of The Club for the last five years and had led the format change from black leather biker bar to black leather punk club. The reason for the change was simple—he couldn’t stand listening to Johnny Cash every night.
    â€œMan was fucking depressing,” he told Jersey one night between sets. “All religion and righteousness, but with a voice that chews out a little piece of your soul and spits it on the ground. That cover he did of Hurt ? Jesus Christ, stick a gun in my mouth already.”
    To blend with his club’s image, Les had buzzed his premature gray hair, leaving a two-inch-wide Mohawk that ran down the center of his head like an exploded zipper. He dyed it different colors to match the various holidays: green for St. Paddy’s; orange for Halloween; red, white and blue for Fourth of July, and so on. Today, it was purple. Whether or not that was for the Queen’s birthday, Jersey didn’t want to know.
    To further complement his anti-establishment punk credo, Les wore a tight pair of black jeans and a loose-fitting black T-shirt with the slogan Punk Sucks in a metallic shade of purple to match his hair. Les owned at least a