Read Online The Midnight Man by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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shotgun’s release catch, separating the barrels from the action, set the former down atop a broken packing case, and pitched the firing assembly up over the railing into the loft. The girl glared.
“Temptation’s a dangerous thing,” I explained. “Where did Laura stay when she lived here?”
She closed her mouth so tight it bulged, the way kids do when medicine’s coming. But her eyes wandered past my shoulder. I followed them to a door in the wall behind me and grinned. “Thanks, Puddin’.”
It had been a locker room once. The nozzles in the gray-stalled showers were coated with orange rust and there was mold in the corners. Forty-year-old sweat soured the air. The toilet, sequestered in its own alcove, was an old-fashioned affair of white porcelain with a chain. The Pony Express man had given it a quick wipe with a rag when he delivered it and no one had cleaned it since. The smell in there would have revived a corpse.
The lockers had been moved out of the main room and plasterboard partitions erected, forming a rats’ maze of eight-by-eight cells containing old exercise mats for sleeping and various personal items from clothing to coke spoons. There was graffiti here too, of the OFF THE PIGS variety, along with similar artifacts of the KerouaccumHoffman era that until tonight I had thought was as dead as John Lennon.
I knew which stall was Laura Gaye’s the moment I saw it, even though it surprised me. A couple of pairs of jeans and some T- and sweatshirts had been flung into a heap in one corner, next to a small stack of hymnals and an army surplus footlocker with a sprung lock. A large crucifix carved from a single piece of wood was mounted on a nail in one of the partitions. But for the clothes, the place was as neat and clean and pious as a monk’s cell, and I’d have bet the clothes were too before the cops got to them. The footlocker was empty, which didn’t disappoint me. The cops would have been through it too, with tweezers.
“They didn’t find nothing neither.”
I hadn’t heard her approaching on bare feet. When I turned, Puddin’ ’n’ Tame was leaning against a partition looking into the cell. Her eyes glittered. She’d just had another snort or pop.
“I thought you said you weren’t here when the cops came.”
“Some of the others was.” Her voice was dreamy. “Pigs didn’t find nothing on account of there wasn’t nothing to find. Deak ain’t nobody’s trained nigger.”
“Deak?” I seized the name. So far no one had identified either of the men who had accompanied Laura Gaye into the courtroom.
Her hand drifted to her mouth. I suppose that in her mind it flew, but when you do dope your reactions go first. Something like terror stirred her sluggish features. Then she giggled.
“I’m a teensy bit high,” she said, exaggerating the dreaminess. “I don’t think—”
“Tallulah?”
The name echoed in the big room outside. A man’s voice, deep and resonant. The whites of her eyes leaped out of the gray gloom.
“Child, where the hell you at?”
Another voice mumbled something unintelligible. My nerves did a wild tango. I sidled toward the door, Luger in hand. It started to open on complaining hinges.
“Look out!” Tallulah lunged for the gun. I jerked it away. My arm collided with the door and the automatic clattered across the concrete floor. When I dived after it, a mortar shell burst at the base of my brain. I kept going, the Luger forgotten.
For a euphoric moment I felt better than I ever had in my life, but that was the siren song of the unconscious. I rolled just in time to avoid another kick to the head. A hobnailed boot glanced painfully off my shoulder. I grabbed at the ankle, but a toe from an unexpected quarter caught me hard in the ribs and pain splintered up my side.
“Get her out of here,” snarled the deep voice. The door opened again and swung shut.
A boot like the one that had struck my shoulder—maybe the same one—left the floor
“Temptation’s a dangerous thing,” I explained. “Where did Laura stay when she lived here?”
She closed her mouth so tight it bulged, the way kids do when medicine’s coming. But her eyes wandered past my shoulder. I followed them to a door in the wall behind me and grinned. “Thanks, Puddin’.”
It had been a locker room once. The nozzles in the gray-stalled showers were coated with orange rust and there was mold in the corners. Forty-year-old sweat soured the air. The toilet, sequestered in its own alcove, was an old-fashioned affair of white porcelain with a chain. The Pony Express man had given it a quick wipe with a rag when he delivered it and no one had cleaned it since. The smell in there would have revived a corpse.
The lockers had been moved out of the main room and plasterboard partitions erected, forming a rats’ maze of eight-by-eight cells containing old exercise mats for sleeping and various personal items from clothing to coke spoons. There was graffiti here too, of the OFF THE PIGS variety, along with similar artifacts of the KerouaccumHoffman era that until tonight I had thought was as dead as John Lennon.
I knew which stall was Laura Gaye’s the moment I saw it, even though it surprised me. A couple of pairs of jeans and some T- and sweatshirts had been flung into a heap in one corner, next to a small stack of hymnals and an army surplus footlocker with a sprung lock. A large crucifix carved from a single piece of wood was mounted on a nail in one of the partitions. But for the clothes, the place was as neat and clean and pious as a monk’s cell, and I’d have bet the clothes were too before the cops got to them. The footlocker was empty, which didn’t disappoint me. The cops would have been through it too, with tweezers.
“They didn’t find nothing neither.”
I hadn’t heard her approaching on bare feet. When I turned, Puddin’ ’n’ Tame was leaning against a partition looking into the cell. Her eyes glittered. She’d just had another snort or pop.
“I thought you said you weren’t here when the cops came.”
“Some of the others was.” Her voice was dreamy. “Pigs didn’t find nothing on account of there wasn’t nothing to find. Deak ain’t nobody’s trained nigger.”
“Deak?” I seized the name. So far no one had identified either of the men who had accompanied Laura Gaye into the courtroom.
Her hand drifted to her mouth. I suppose that in her mind it flew, but when you do dope your reactions go first. Something like terror stirred her sluggish features. Then she giggled.
“I’m a teensy bit high,” she said, exaggerating the dreaminess. “I don’t think—”
“Tallulah?”
The name echoed in the big room outside. A man’s voice, deep and resonant. The whites of her eyes leaped out of the gray gloom.
“Child, where the hell you at?”
Another voice mumbled something unintelligible. My nerves did a wild tango. I sidled toward the door, Luger in hand. It started to open on complaining hinges.
“Look out!” Tallulah lunged for the gun. I jerked it away. My arm collided with the door and the automatic clattered across the concrete floor. When I dived after it, a mortar shell burst at the base of my brain. I kept going, the Luger forgotten.
For a euphoric moment I felt better than I ever had in my life, but that was the siren song of the unconscious. I rolled just in time to avoid another kick to the head. A hobnailed boot glanced painfully off my shoulder. I grabbed at the ankle, but a toe from an unexpected quarter caught me hard in the ribs and pain splintered up my side.
“Get her out of here,” snarled the deep voice. The door opened again and swung shut.
A boot like the one that had struck my shoulder—maybe the same one—left the floor
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