Read Online The Naked Detective by Laurence Shames - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurence Shames
Ads: Link
could really be called a neighborhood. It still features curbside games of dominoes, and corner groceries that compete on the charm of their owners and the coldness of their beer. Generations of families still live together here. Houses are passed on, patched and propped up with cinder blocks and railroad ties; they lean but they endure. Not that the Village is immune from change. Homesteading whites who can't afford the other parts of town are picking up some bargains—you see earnest young white women in torn jeans and bandannas, scraping paint, raking improbable gardens. Gay pride flags hang from porches here and there. But the pace of change is slow for now, as languorous as the streets themselves, and has a human face. It won't stay that way; and as I rode past the rib joints and the fried-fish stands, I vaguely wondered if the hovering developers would let Bahama Village keep its own true name, or if they'd decide that the suggestion of blackness might keep the millionaires away.
On Louisa Street between Emma and Thomas, I stumbled onto the Hibiscus. It had a brightly painted wooden sign out front, and frankly, I found it sooner than I wanted to. I'd been enjoying the feeling of having a project, yet without having to do anything but push the pedals and look around. Now I had to talk. Now I had to play a part.
I locked my bike and went up a set of porch steps that closely resembled my own. All basically alike, these old Conch houses; part of their appeal. This one had been converted so that the small front parlor was now the office. There was a chest-high counter that held a rack filled with the relentless promotional brochures—fishing trips, nightclubs, sunset sails. Potted palms and ficuses brought the outdoors in. A doorway led to the guest rooms that, boardinghouse style, gave onto a common hall. I slapped the little silver bell atop the counter and waited for someone to appear.
After a moment, a woman came bustling along.
She was black, had cornrowed hair; and went about two-forty, with an astonishingly confident smile that seemed to go with someone more conventionally attractive, and that carried all before it. In one breath she said an extravagant hello, told me her name was Vanessa, and asked if she could help me.
"I'm looking for a friend," I said.
"I hope you find one," said Vanessa. She flashed the smile and gave me a mischievous half-wink.
"His name's Kenny Lukens."
She turned her face toward one exorbitantly fleshy shoulder, thought a second. "No one by that name staying here."
"This would have been three, four days ago."
She shook her head, a little quickly for my taste.
I glanced over toward the counter. "Isn't there a register you could check?"
"Hon," she said, "I only got five rooms."
"He might have used a different name."
I thought her face got just a little less friendly then, protective of her clientele. "That makes it tougher, doesn't it?"
"He's about six-foot, white, has green eyes and hair just longer than a crew cut."
"Different name," she said, "maybe he wanted to be left alone."
I ignored that since I had no answer for it. "He might've been in drag."
"You a cop?"
"No."
That wasn't good enough for Vanessa. She fixed me with big dark steady eyes that coaxed forth more information.
"I . . . I'm . . . I'm a private investigator." There, I'd said it. Aloud and of my own free will. For the first time ever, I believe. I braced myself to be laughed at and unmasked. I waited for disbelief and mockery. It didn't come. "Name's Pete Amsterdam."
Vanessa said, "Somebody paying you, Pete Amsterdam?"
"Excuse me?"
"To make trouble."
"I'm not trying to make trouble."
"Then why you looking for him?"
I licked my lips. PI's had to say hard things sometimes, and they always said them straight. "Because he's dead."
"Dead?"
"The body they found on Tank Island a couple nights ago? That was Kenny Lukens. The police don't seem to know that. They won't learn it from me. He almost was my
On Louisa Street between Emma and Thomas, I stumbled onto the Hibiscus. It had a brightly painted wooden sign out front, and frankly, I found it sooner than I wanted to. I'd been enjoying the feeling of having a project, yet without having to do anything but push the pedals and look around. Now I had to talk. Now I had to play a part.
I locked my bike and went up a set of porch steps that closely resembled my own. All basically alike, these old Conch houses; part of their appeal. This one had been converted so that the small front parlor was now the office. There was a chest-high counter that held a rack filled with the relentless promotional brochures—fishing trips, nightclubs, sunset sails. Potted palms and ficuses brought the outdoors in. A doorway led to the guest rooms that, boardinghouse style, gave onto a common hall. I slapped the little silver bell atop the counter and waited for someone to appear.
After a moment, a woman came bustling along.
She was black, had cornrowed hair; and went about two-forty, with an astonishingly confident smile that seemed to go with someone more conventionally attractive, and that carried all before it. In one breath she said an extravagant hello, told me her name was Vanessa, and asked if she could help me.
"I'm looking for a friend," I said.
"I hope you find one," said Vanessa. She flashed the smile and gave me a mischievous half-wink.
"His name's Kenny Lukens."
She turned her face toward one exorbitantly fleshy shoulder, thought a second. "No one by that name staying here."
"This would have been three, four days ago."
She shook her head, a little quickly for my taste.
I glanced over toward the counter. "Isn't there a register you could check?"
"Hon," she said, "I only got five rooms."
"He might have used a different name."
I thought her face got just a little less friendly then, protective of her clientele. "That makes it tougher, doesn't it?"
"He's about six-foot, white, has green eyes and hair just longer than a crew cut."
"Different name," she said, "maybe he wanted to be left alone."
I ignored that since I had no answer for it. "He might've been in drag."
"You a cop?"
"No."
That wasn't good enough for Vanessa. She fixed me with big dark steady eyes that coaxed forth more information.
"I . . . I'm . . . I'm a private investigator." There, I'd said it. Aloud and of my own free will. For the first time ever, I believe. I braced myself to be laughed at and unmasked. I waited for disbelief and mockery. It didn't come. "Name's Pete Amsterdam."
Vanessa said, "Somebody paying you, Pete Amsterdam?"
"Excuse me?"
"To make trouble."
"I'm not trying to make trouble."
"Then why you looking for him?"
I licked my lips. PI's had to say hard things sometimes, and they always said them straight. "Because he's dead."
"Dead?"
"The body they found on Tank Island a couple nights ago? That was Kenny Lukens. The police don't seem to know that. They won't learn it from me. He almost was my
Similar Books
