Read Online The Glass Highway by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Ads: Link
store employees stop chiseling the management under the watchful eye of goosed security, kids stay home to avoid missing out on the loot come Christmas morning. Business would pick up after the first of the year when everyone was fed up to the hairline with peace and good will, but for now I was the forgotten man. I sipped unblended whiskey and watched the rain.
The world hit me over the head with my own telephone. I tipped down what was in the glass and hung the receiver on my ear. “Hudson Bay lighthouse. Gus speaking.”
There was dead air on the other end, then: “You don’t sound like any Gus I ever knew, and I knew a couple.”
A woman’s voice, middle-register but trying hard for husky. A shade alcoholic, but I didn’t hold it against her, because I was a shade alcoholic myself. I said, “You sound like a Fern. Or do Ferns make sounds?”
“This one does. I tried to get you at your place. Don’t you ever go home?”
“Every Leap Year Day, just to feed my four-year locust.”
“What are you doing this festive eve?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t rather be doing with Candace Bergen on the beach at St. Tropez.”
She blew air. I could almost smell the smoke. “I’ll call the airport. You know The Chord Progression on Livernois?”
I said I knew it. “Wear heels,” she said, and broke the connection.
I hung up and drained my glass, staring into a dark corner of the office. The rain was just water leaking out of the sky now that I knew I had to go out in it. I broke out the foul-weather gear and dangled.
Entering a jazz club in full stride from a rainy street is a little like walking around a corner into a fire fight. I stood in the dimly lit entrance a moment, stopped by a wall of amplified noise while a frat kid in plaid dinner jacket and black bow tie frowned over his reservation book at the puddle I was making on the paisley carpet. Someone was banging hell out of a piano in the cave beyond the lighted area, but I didn’t hear any wood splintering yet so I figured the show was just getting started.
“We’re full up, mister. Try us after New Year’s.” The frat kid had priced my suit and raincoat at a glance. His tone said he’d made that tonight in tips.
I told him I was meeting Fern Esterhazy. His expression thawed a little. “Uh, yes, she said she was meeting a gentleman. You’ll find her at the bar.” We were both men of the world now, his attitude implied, brothers of the eager thigh. I had a necktie older than he was.
I left my stuff at the window with an aging hatcheck girl and pried a path through the darkness and smoke hanging beyond the arch. The Chord Progression had started out topless under another name, but a previous administration had nickel-and-dimed it to death with citations for overcrowding and serving drinks to minors. The new owners had redecorated and advertised it as a place to hear topflight musicians of international renown. Instead, the slow, rolling death of the auto industry had made it a showcase for what passed as local talent. On the bandstand a black pianist with a weightlifter’s torso was tearing chords out of the keyboard in long, ragged strips while his partners on horn and bass stood by nodding and grunting behind dark glasses. It sounded to me like someone kicking a box of Lincoln Logs downstairs, but then I’m a Fats Waller man. Customers at tables visible in the glow of the baby spot seemed to be enjoying it. At six bucks for a glass of alcohol and fizz they’d better.
The Fern, in a shimmering green evening gown with a ninety-day neckline, was seated on a red stool at the bar arguing with a teenage bartender in a yellow jacket. Her voice was more nasal now.
“What are you, some kind of sex-changed Emily Post? Your job’s to keep this glass full. When I want your opinion on how a lady should act I’ll call you. Don’t break any dates to wait by the phone.”
The teenager touched his bow tie. “It’s not my rule, ma’am. Management says
The world hit me over the head with my own telephone. I tipped down what was in the glass and hung the receiver on my ear. “Hudson Bay lighthouse. Gus speaking.”
There was dead air on the other end, then: “You don’t sound like any Gus I ever knew, and I knew a couple.”
A woman’s voice, middle-register but trying hard for husky. A shade alcoholic, but I didn’t hold it against her, because I was a shade alcoholic myself. I said, “You sound like a Fern. Or do Ferns make sounds?”
“This one does. I tried to get you at your place. Don’t you ever go home?”
“Every Leap Year Day, just to feed my four-year locust.”
“What are you doing this festive eve?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t rather be doing with Candace Bergen on the beach at St. Tropez.”
She blew air. I could almost smell the smoke. “I’ll call the airport. You know The Chord Progression on Livernois?”
I said I knew it. “Wear heels,” she said, and broke the connection.
I hung up and drained my glass, staring into a dark corner of the office. The rain was just water leaking out of the sky now that I knew I had to go out in it. I broke out the foul-weather gear and dangled.
Entering a jazz club in full stride from a rainy street is a little like walking around a corner into a fire fight. I stood in the dimly lit entrance a moment, stopped by a wall of amplified noise while a frat kid in plaid dinner jacket and black bow tie frowned over his reservation book at the puddle I was making on the paisley carpet. Someone was banging hell out of a piano in the cave beyond the lighted area, but I didn’t hear any wood splintering yet so I figured the show was just getting started.
“We’re full up, mister. Try us after New Year’s.” The frat kid had priced my suit and raincoat at a glance. His tone said he’d made that tonight in tips.
I told him I was meeting Fern Esterhazy. His expression thawed a little. “Uh, yes, she said she was meeting a gentleman. You’ll find her at the bar.” We were both men of the world now, his attitude implied, brothers of the eager thigh. I had a necktie older than he was.
I left my stuff at the window with an aging hatcheck girl and pried a path through the darkness and smoke hanging beyond the arch. The Chord Progression had started out topless under another name, but a previous administration had nickel-and-dimed it to death with citations for overcrowding and serving drinks to minors. The new owners had redecorated and advertised it as a place to hear topflight musicians of international renown. Instead, the slow, rolling death of the auto industry had made it a showcase for what passed as local talent. On the bandstand a black pianist with a weightlifter’s torso was tearing chords out of the keyboard in long, ragged strips while his partners on horn and bass stood by nodding and grunting behind dark glasses. It sounded to me like someone kicking a box of Lincoln Logs downstairs, but then I’m a Fats Waller man. Customers at tables visible in the glow of the baby spot seemed to be enjoying it. At six bucks for a glass of alcohol and fizz they’d better.
The Fern, in a shimmering green evening gown with a ninety-day neckline, was seated on a red stool at the bar arguing with a teenage bartender in a yellow jacket. Her voice was more nasal now.
“What are you, some kind of sex-changed Emily Post? Your job’s to keep this glass full. When I want your opinion on how a lady should act I’ll call you. Don’t break any dates to wait by the phone.”
The teenager touched his bow tie. “It’s not my rule, ma’am. Management says
Similar Books
