Read Online Thorazine Beach by Bradley Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bradley Harris
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pair of air-quotes. “Said she wanted a real…”
“Real what?”
Her mouth made a tiny smile. “‘Gumshoe,’ is what she said, Jack.”
“That the actual word?” I felt my eyes roll.
“As God is my witness, Jack.”
“Those only exist in fiction,” I said. “As well you know.”
“Not in
her
mind.”
“I need a trench coat for this?”
“And a fedora hat as well, I expect, Jack.”
“Jesus.”
“You might need him, too.” Her face was dead serious.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t,” Eileen replied, “
mean
…anything. I just have this… feeling.”
So did I.
14.
21 July, 11:30 a.m.
A Cozy Wee Place for Two
I stopped for ice cream on the way back to the Benbow. Breyers. Vanilla bean. “Got to be the vanilla bean,” Nikki had once told me. “No bean, it’s just, well…vanilla.” That and chocolate sauce. That’d perk the girl up, I thought. I’d noticed that morning the swelling had already gone down considerably. Her face was still, half of it anyway, one giant bruise, and it had worn pain, even in her sleep.
I unlocked the door as quietly as I could, thinking she might still be sleeping. I felt for the overhead light switch, thought better of it, turned on the little desk lamp I’d bought.
No Nikki. Just a note.
Thank you, Jack, for everything. Just a little cozy in here, is all. Don’t worry—I’ve got somebody
…
Love, Nikki
.
“Somebody.” I had my own idea who.
I thought about tucking the ice cream—a gallon’s worth—in the fridge. Then I thought better of that, too, hoofed it over to the office, found LaKenya, plucked a smile from somewhere, and passed it off as a gift I’d dreamed up just for her.
My consolation: ramen noodles in the microwave.
15.
23 July, 2:00 p.m.
Nikki, Don’t Lose That Number
“Jack.” It sounded like:
Hey, you
.
“Nikki?”
“Yeah. Listen, Jack—”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Phht,” she said. “I’ve had it for years.” Swelling must be down, I thought—the muffle was gone from her voice.
“You never gave me yours.”
“Oh, I’d never give
that
out. Not to just anyone.”
Sigh. “So…”
“Anyway, she’s here.”
“Where?”
“At the counter, idiot.”
“Who?”
“
You
know.”
“No. Who?”
“Too classy for you, buster.”
Some kind of titter in the background.
“Name?” I asked.
“Some uppity Collierville chick. Kind of a babe.”
“This uppity Collierville chick have a handle?”
“Some triple-barreled, three-ring circus kind of a thing. Southern as pecan pie.”
“Wouldn’t be Barbara Jean McCorkle, by any chance?”
“Bingo.”
“She want to talk to me?”
“No, Jack. She drove all the way in from Hooterville for burnt coffee and stale cheesecake.”
“Well, put her on, then, please.”
“Hell, no. I’m not burning my cell minutes on
you
, bozo. Thing is, Babs, here, wants to
see
you—not listen to your dulcet tones through the crackle of AT&T.”
“Was she
expecting
me?”
“She is now.”
“Well, she didn’t have an appointment.”
“She got one now.”
“How?”
“Told her I’d make one.”
“What are you—my private secretary?”
“You wish. But I’m not wearing that French maid’s outfit.”
“What a relief,” I said. “The butler will appreciate that. When’s the appointment?”
“Now, fool. You’re late. Get your ass in here.”
Click.
My ass got.
Barbara Jean McCorkle, all five-ten of her, rose to greet me. Six-two or three, if you counted the heels. And they did get my attention—she’d been a flat-soled, long-sleeved, buttoned-to-the-neck church lady, last I’d seen her. I knew she was just shy of me, in age, and you have to be something to carry off a leather mini if you’re that vintage. And she was
something
, I had to admit. Different look, for sure. Fine vintage.
She’d saved the two soft seats in the corner, and motioned me into one as she sat in the other, a little round table between us.
“Real what?”
Her mouth made a tiny smile. “‘Gumshoe,’ is what she said, Jack.”
“That the actual word?” I felt my eyes roll.
“As God is my witness, Jack.”
“Those only exist in fiction,” I said. “As well you know.”
“Not in
her
mind.”
“I need a trench coat for this?”
“And a fedora hat as well, I expect, Jack.”
“Jesus.”
“You might need him, too.” Her face was dead serious.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t,” Eileen replied, “
mean
…anything. I just have this… feeling.”
So did I.
14.
21 July, 11:30 a.m.
A Cozy Wee Place for Two
I stopped for ice cream on the way back to the Benbow. Breyers. Vanilla bean. “Got to be the vanilla bean,” Nikki had once told me. “No bean, it’s just, well…vanilla.” That and chocolate sauce. That’d perk the girl up, I thought. I’d noticed that morning the swelling had already gone down considerably. Her face was still, half of it anyway, one giant bruise, and it had worn pain, even in her sleep.
I unlocked the door as quietly as I could, thinking she might still be sleeping. I felt for the overhead light switch, thought better of it, turned on the little desk lamp I’d bought.
No Nikki. Just a note.
Thank you, Jack, for everything. Just a little cozy in here, is all. Don’t worry—I’ve got somebody
…
Love, Nikki
.
“Somebody.” I had my own idea who.
I thought about tucking the ice cream—a gallon’s worth—in the fridge. Then I thought better of that, too, hoofed it over to the office, found LaKenya, plucked a smile from somewhere, and passed it off as a gift I’d dreamed up just for her.
My consolation: ramen noodles in the microwave.
15.
23 July, 2:00 p.m.
Nikki, Don’t Lose That Number
“Jack.” It sounded like:
Hey, you
.
“Nikki?”
“Yeah. Listen, Jack—”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Phht,” she said. “I’ve had it for years.” Swelling must be down, I thought—the muffle was gone from her voice.
“You never gave me yours.”
“Oh, I’d never give
that
out. Not to just anyone.”
Sigh. “So…”
“Anyway, she’s here.”
“Where?”
“At the counter, idiot.”
“Who?”
“
You
know.”
“No. Who?”
“Too classy for you, buster.”
Some kind of titter in the background.
“Name?” I asked.
“Some uppity Collierville chick. Kind of a babe.”
“This uppity Collierville chick have a handle?”
“Some triple-barreled, three-ring circus kind of a thing. Southern as pecan pie.”
“Wouldn’t be Barbara Jean McCorkle, by any chance?”
“Bingo.”
“She want to talk to me?”
“No, Jack. She drove all the way in from Hooterville for burnt coffee and stale cheesecake.”
“Well, put her on, then, please.”
“Hell, no. I’m not burning my cell minutes on
you
, bozo. Thing is, Babs, here, wants to
see
you—not listen to your dulcet tones through the crackle of AT&T.”
“Was she
expecting
me?”
“She is now.”
“Well, she didn’t have an appointment.”
“She got one now.”
“How?”
“Told her I’d make one.”
“What are you—my private secretary?”
“You wish. But I’m not wearing that French maid’s outfit.”
“What a relief,” I said. “The butler will appreciate that. When’s the appointment?”
“Now, fool. You’re late. Get your ass in here.”
Click.
My ass got.
Barbara Jean McCorkle, all five-ten of her, rose to greet me. Six-two or three, if you counted the heels. And they did get my attention—she’d been a flat-soled, long-sleeved, buttoned-to-the-neck church lady, last I’d seen her. I knew she was just shy of me, in age, and you have to be something to carry off a leather mini if you’re that vintage. And she was
something
, I had to admit. Different look, for sure. Fine vintage.
She’d saved the two soft seats in the corner, and motioned me into one as she sat in the other, a little round table between us.
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