Read Online The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey - Free Book Online Page B

of index cards. Tamping them straight on his side of the ledge, he began sorting through them with efficiency.
    “Kano,” he said, stopping at one of the cards. “B. Kano. Baltimore, Maryland.”
    “Can I see it?”
    He shrugged. “Sure,” he said and slid it through the slot.
    Other than the night manager’s almost totally illegible scrawl indicating the room number (414) and the price ($15), the only non-printed words on the registration form were “B. Kano, Baltimore, Maryland” in nondescript block letters.
    “Did the police ask to see this?”
    “Sure, but they didn’t make any big deal of it. Most of the people stay in a dump like this use fake names. ‘B. Kano’s’ got more class than ‘John Smith,’ though.”
    “Yeah,” I said. But I made a mental note of the name “B. Kano” anyway, just in case.
    “What time’s the night manager get in?”
    “’Bout six. But if you’re plannin’ to talk to him about this Kano guy, you can save yourself a trip.”
    “Why’s that?”
    He took the card I’d slid back to him and tapped at the night manager’s scrawl.
    “Ernie drinks a little,” he said. “He’s got real nice handwriting when he’s sober, but I can tell from this shit he was blotto. And when Ernie’s shit-faced, a herd of elephants could come through the door, and he couldn’t tell you what color they were.”
    “Any chance Bobby might have signed in as B. Kano?”
    He shook his head.
    “Could be, but I don’t think so. If Bobby’d wanted a room, he’da set it up with me earlier. Ernie, he’s married and got six kids. He don’t make no freebie arrangements with guys. And on freebies nobody signs no cards.”
    “Did you ever consider becoming a detective?” I asked, only half joking. I was genuinely, if grudgingly, impressed that somebody apparently lived under all those muscles and tattoos.
    He grinned and blushed again but said nothing.
    “I really appreciate your talking with me, uh…” I began before remembering I didn’t know his name.
    “Brad,” he said, still grinning.
    “Brad,” I repeated.
    “Sure thing,” he said, giving me a half-wave, half-salute.
    I returned the gesture and turned to leave.
    “Hey!” Brad called out, and I turned back to the window. “You ever need a room sometime, maybe you an’ me could work somethin’ out.”
    “You got it,” I said, allowing myself a brief flash of erotic fantasy. I gave him another smile and a wave and left.
    *
    At exactly five o’clock, I called Mike Sibalitch. The phone rang eight times before it was answered with a rather breathless “Hello?”
    “Mr. Sibalitch. This is Dick Hardesty; we spoke this morning and you asked me to call at five.”
    “Oh, yeah. Sorry if I sound a little out of breath,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “I was out working in the yard, and I was halfway up the hill.”
    “That’s okay. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk to me about Gene Harriman. I have to be out that way later this evening, and if you’re going to be home, maybe I could stop by and talk to you first.”
    “Sure. I work eleven to seven, and I leave here about ten. What time did you have in mind?”
    “Well,” I said, doing some quick mental calculations of distance and travel times between Bellwether and Partridge Place, “is seven o’clock okay?”
    “That’ll be fine. You know how to get here?”
    “I’ve got a city map—it shouldn’t be any problem.”
    “Fine,” he acknowledged. “See you then.”
    I had just enough time to stop at the apartment to clean up a little, change my shirt (it was still in the upper 90s, and I’ve never found an antiperspirant that works), and grab a quick bite to eat before heading out again.
    *
    Sibalitch’s house was a comfortable two-story colonial in an area of homes whose resemblance to a Hollywood studio’s back lot was heightened when a kid the spitting image of Beaver Cleaver peddled past me on his bike. Built on a hillside