Read Online The Original Alibi (Matt Kile) by David Bishop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Bishop
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hold his hair above his eyes while he looked up at me.
Through the apartment window I saw a man sitting with a blonde. They were on the couch facing the TV, starting to watch a movie. The title on the screen, Debbie Does Dallas, a classic for folks who cotton to that style of entertainment. What looked to be a blank white business card attached to the screen door with a pushpin had his name printed in block letters: Tommy Montoya. The screen was unlatched; I turned on the recorder and walked in.
Tommy was tall and thin with a nose broken often enough to permanently point it toward his ear. I gave my name and extended my hand; he shook it like it wasn’t worth the effort. Offsetting these negatives, he had beautiful hair, dark and wavy, with a healthy sheen. He had bluish-green eyes that didn’t seem to belong in his face.
The bleached blonde wore a dull look that told me that her bra size exceeded her IQ, which despite her abundance left her not very smart. I said nothing, just stared at the blonde. After a couple of minutes she clearly got uncomfortable, which was my reason for staring. She got up to go, likely disappointed she wasn’t going to watch Debbie work her way through Dallas. Tommy patted her backside as she went out. Then he turned his attention to me.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice didn’t go with his look. It went with his nose but not his hair and eyes. His diction was bad and he swore too much.
“I’m your conscience. I’m here to give you a chance to die without that load of guilt you’ve been carrying around for the past eleven years.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not telling you jack until I know just who the fuck you are.”
“Then die with a guilty conscience, your choice.” I pulled out Quirt Brown’s gun. Tommy responded by sticking both his hands in the air, like we were acting out a stagecoach robbery in a 50s B-western.
“I’ve got a few questions I need you to answer. If you don’t cooperate you have no more value to me than did Cory Jackson.” I showed him the picture still in my cell phone of Cory lying in the wet surf with a hole in his forehead. “The picture doesn’t do him justice,” I said. “You can’t see the sea water pooled in the hole.” I paused to grin. “Cory didn’t tell me shit. But then, from now on he won’t be telling anybody anything. So, which way are you going to play it, tough or smart?”
Montoya’s eyes kept flittering between my face and the hole in the end of the gun that I held pointed at his heart. It’s fun to tell the truth in a way that makes the listener feel he heard something different than what you said. Everything I told Tommy Montoya had been the truth. In listening, he added two and two together to come up with a total that to him meant I had punched Cory’s ticket. Being a PI could be so much more fun than playing under cop rules.
“Eleven years ago, you and Cory Jackson consorted to get Eddie Whittaker arrested for killing his woman.”
“I never met this Cory guy.” He flinched, ducked actually, when I crinkled my lips and angled the gun more toward his face. “Really,” he said like that was supposed to make his denial more convincing. “I mean it,” he added for even more emphasis. “I never knew him, but I’ve known the name ever since. He was the dude on the beach who claims he saw the killing.”
“Cory’s history. Let’s stay with you. You lied about Eddie buying gas. Why?”
“For money, man, you know. We all do shit for money. I sold myself as a witness against the guy.”
“Who and why?”
“I got no clue who. When I asked why, the man said, ‘I wanna fuck up the general.’”
“So, how much money?”
“Ten grand.”
“That’s what Cory got too, ten big ones. He also got a bullet, but that came eleven years later. Your bullet could arrive any time now.”
Again, I said one thing, he heard another.
“You here to kill me?”
“My job is revenge against the
Through the apartment window I saw a man sitting with a blonde. They were on the couch facing the TV, starting to watch a movie. The title on the screen, Debbie Does Dallas, a classic for folks who cotton to that style of entertainment. What looked to be a blank white business card attached to the screen door with a pushpin had his name printed in block letters: Tommy Montoya. The screen was unlatched; I turned on the recorder and walked in.
Tommy was tall and thin with a nose broken often enough to permanently point it toward his ear. I gave my name and extended my hand; he shook it like it wasn’t worth the effort. Offsetting these negatives, he had beautiful hair, dark and wavy, with a healthy sheen. He had bluish-green eyes that didn’t seem to belong in his face.
The bleached blonde wore a dull look that told me that her bra size exceeded her IQ, which despite her abundance left her not very smart. I said nothing, just stared at the blonde. After a couple of minutes she clearly got uncomfortable, which was my reason for staring. She got up to go, likely disappointed she wasn’t going to watch Debbie work her way through Dallas. Tommy patted her backside as she went out. Then he turned his attention to me.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice didn’t go with his look. It went with his nose but not his hair and eyes. His diction was bad and he swore too much.
“I’m your conscience. I’m here to give you a chance to die without that load of guilt you’ve been carrying around for the past eleven years.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not telling you jack until I know just who the fuck you are.”
“Then die with a guilty conscience, your choice.” I pulled out Quirt Brown’s gun. Tommy responded by sticking both his hands in the air, like we were acting out a stagecoach robbery in a 50s B-western.
“I’ve got a few questions I need you to answer. If you don’t cooperate you have no more value to me than did Cory Jackson.” I showed him the picture still in my cell phone of Cory lying in the wet surf with a hole in his forehead. “The picture doesn’t do him justice,” I said. “You can’t see the sea water pooled in the hole.” I paused to grin. “Cory didn’t tell me shit. But then, from now on he won’t be telling anybody anything. So, which way are you going to play it, tough or smart?”
Montoya’s eyes kept flittering between my face and the hole in the end of the gun that I held pointed at his heart. It’s fun to tell the truth in a way that makes the listener feel he heard something different than what you said. Everything I told Tommy Montoya had been the truth. In listening, he added two and two together to come up with a total that to him meant I had punched Cory’s ticket. Being a PI could be so much more fun than playing under cop rules.
“Eleven years ago, you and Cory Jackson consorted to get Eddie Whittaker arrested for killing his woman.”
“I never met this Cory guy.” He flinched, ducked actually, when I crinkled my lips and angled the gun more toward his face. “Really,” he said like that was supposed to make his denial more convincing. “I mean it,” he added for even more emphasis. “I never knew him, but I’ve known the name ever since. He was the dude on the beach who claims he saw the killing.”
“Cory’s history. Let’s stay with you. You lied about Eddie buying gas. Why?”
“For money, man, you know. We all do shit for money. I sold myself as a witness against the guy.”
“Who and why?”
“I got no clue who. When I asked why, the man said, ‘I wanna fuck up the general.’”
“So, how much money?”
“Ten grand.”
“That’s what Cory got too, ten big ones. He also got a bullet, but that came eleven years later. Your bullet could arrive any time now.”
Again, I said one thing, he heard another.
“You here to kill me?”
“My job is revenge against the
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