Read Online The Hinky Bearskin Rug by Jennifer Stevenson - Free Book Online Page B

and then they kick us out,” Clay said.
    “No, no,” she
said. “You don’t know the game. It’s an excuse to get us in the door. Once
we’re in, they’re wide open.”
    They found the
address soon enough, but parking sucked, and they had to weave through the meat
packing district looking for a spot.
    “This area is
one of my favorites,” she said as they crawled through a neighborhood of low
brick warehouses and about a million trucks. The sidewalks and streets here
were used as extensions of the loading docks. Burly guys carried whole dead
pigs on their shoulders. Lidless boxes of dead fish gaped open on the
sidewalks. People in rubber waders hosed down the pavement with hot water, and
blood literally ran in the gutter, along with lettuce leaves, oranges, and
discarded plastic gloves. Jewel sniffed the air and smiled.
    “You have
strange tastes,” Clay said.
    “It’s all
real. Stuff is being bought and sold. Food is being prepared and put in trucks
and taken someplace where somebody will eat it. It’s not pork futures, it’s
real pork. It’s not a law office, it’s actual sharks getting skinned and
sliced. Wow, you ever seen so much zucchini in one place?”
    She maneuvered
them through a steaming maze of trucks, loaded pallets, and workers in
gore-stained white aprons.
    “Strange place
for a porn company,” Clay said.
    “Good place
for one,” she said. “You won’t find a bunch of soccer moms protesting in the
meat packing district. Although condo creep is moving closer every day.”
    They parked
illegally in half a space by a locked-off lot that hadn’t seen traffic in
years. Jewel put her official business tag on the dash, and they picked their way through the detritus of the City of
Big Shoulders.
    The Artistic
Publishing Company was a five-story red brick building occupying half a city
block. The name was carved into limestone over the front door, and it rang a
bell for Jewel. Who had mentioned this company to her recently?
    “What’s that
aroma?” Randy said. “Cinnamon?”
    Clay pointed
to the corner of the Artistic Building.
    Jewel gave a
heart-cry.
    “Hoby’s!” Her
stomach rumbled. “I need pastry! I need it now.” Leaving the boys on the street, she ran into the bakery.
    Hoby’s
Bäckerei was a room-size pastry bong smelling of melted chocolate, browning
butter, cinnamon, toasting pecans, and fresh coffee. A guy in white rolled in a
big rack of hot cow plops. Jewel bought three and ran back to her team with her
white bag.
    “These,” she
said, handing them out, “are fresh cinnamon cow plops, the finest non-chocolate
pastry money can buy.” She bit into the edge of hers. It was so hot, the
crunchy crust sizzled against her tongue. “Ohmigod, it’s fabulous.”
    “Cow plop.”
Randy looked dubiously at his. “I suppose there is a facetious resemblance.” He
nibbled. “Good.”
    “I wouldn’t
eat anything made in this building,” Clay said.
    “You eat ’em
at work every day,” Jewel said thickly. “Be done in a minute.” She looked at
her half-eaten cow plop. “No, I won’t. If I finish this one I’ll want another.
Here.” She handed the rest of her cow plop to Randy, who put it all back in the
white bag. “Business before pleasure.”
    “Must I stay
in the car?” Randy said.
    “I’ll watch
him,” Clay said.
    Jewel shook
her head. “I just realized, we need his hinky radar.” She scanned the building.
“They’ve been here for ages. Wide open in a dozen ways. Their only hope is to
make nice.”
    “We’re nice,”
Clay said.
    “Exceptionally
so,” Randy said.
    Jewel put on
her cop face. “Let’s go.”
    There was a
security guard inside the entrance. You could either turn left and buy porn at
wholesale, or you could sign in and go right to a set of blank gray double
doors or to the elevators, or straight up a grand staircase. Jewel gave the
guard their names and titles. He phoned upstairs.
    “Go on up to
four. Miss Tannyhill will see