Read Online The Dying Crapshooter's Blues by David Fulmer - Free Book Online

way he did when he was listening to every nuance in a voice. Now he shook his head stubbornly. “Then why doesn’t he say so?”
    â€œAsk him,” Joe said.
    Willie pursed his lips and huffed with petulance.
    Joe said, “I don’t need to get messed up in this, Willie. I’ve got my own troubles.”
    â€œThat boy’s on his deathbed,” Willie said. “You know you can’t deny him. So I’d say you
are
messed up in it.”
    When Joe didn’t respond, he adjusted his guitar across his back, turned around, and strolled away, following the path he held inside his head.
    Â 
    Joe walked up Courtland Street, passing the very spot where Jesse had fallen and thinking about what Willie had said. Though his short stints as a copper and a detective barely counted, he knew that if he didn’t poke around, it was unlikely they’d ever know if a policeman named Logue really had shot Little Jesse Williams in the dead of night.
    It was also true what he had told Willie: He had problems of his own, problems that got worse the moment he rounded the corner onto Houston Street and saw the APD sedan at the curb in front of the Hampton, the engine idling. He stifled the urge to turn around and go back the way he’d come, even though he knew it would make him look guilty of something.
    It was too late, anyway; the car door had swung open and a man in a gray overcoat and black Bond Street hat put a foot onto the running board, then stepped to the sidewalk. The officer had seen him coming in the outside mirror, and now went into a pocket to produce a badge in a black leather wallet, which he held in clear view. Joe put on his best innocent face and approached at a stroll.
    The cop was around Joe’s age, of medium height and solid, with a common American face—the type who would be hard to pick out in a crowd. His eyes were a clear blue as he studied Joe up and down, taking his measure. He wasn’t one of those angry sorts, just a fellow who enjoyed his work.
    â€œMr. Rose,” he said as Joe drew close. “Lieutenant Collins.” He put away the badge.
    â€œYes, Lieutenant,” Joe said.
    â€œWhen did you get to town, sir?”
    â€œCouple days ago.”
    Collins was watching him with what seemed a vague interest. “I’m here to deliver a message from Captain Jackson,” he said. “He wants you in his office tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. No later.” He gave Joe a look. “You be there, all right? Because I don’t want to have to come find you.” He reached for the chrome handle and opened the door.
    Joe wanted to ask how the Captain happened to know that he was in town, then thought better of it and said, “So what’s this about?”
    Collins’s eyes lightened as if Joe had said something humorous. “Tomorrow morning at ten,” he repeated. He slid into the seat and slammed the door.
    Joe watched the car pull away from the curb and chug down the hill toward Courtland Street, the taillights glowing red in the dark of the falling night. He cursed under his breath, then turned and pushed through the doors into the hotel.
    Upstairs, he was relieved to find Adeline long gone, with only a faint strand of her perfume left around the bed. A smart girl, she knew better than to press a good thing. Joe had treated her right, taking her to the speak and buying her all the gin rickeys she could handle, then giving her pleasure in the bed when she woke up in the morning.
    He had an eye for women who could have a good time and let it go at that. Though every now and then he slipped, and one of them got it in her foolish head that he was marrying material. It was preposterous; but some females flat lost their minds once they imagined themselves in love. Unable or unwilling to grasp the fact that all Joe wanted was some decent company and a good fuck, the woman went on a campaign that included hints of an
arrangement