Read Online Too Sweet to Die by Ron Goulart, Llc Ebook Architects - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Goulart, Llc Ebook Architects
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Poncho and his friends raped Jill?”
Nada looked away, setting the wine bottle on the olive-colored electric stove. “I don’t know what he actually did for sure,” she said. “All I know is what he told me he was thinking about. They’ve done it before.”
“You didn’t try to stop him.”
“Poncho ain’t somebody you try to stop. Anyhow, Jill wasn’t in any mood to be talked out of anything,” said Nada. “It’s not exactly rape if she went along on her own, is it?”
Easy was directly in front of her. He put his big hands on her bare arms. “You didn’t tell anybody until now. Why?”
“Why do you think? Now I’m worried,” she said. “It’s a long time from Saturday to Wednesday. And I told you I feel maternal sometimes.”
“So finally today you’re worried.”
The pretty girl closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head. “You don’t know all I got to carry around.”
With the fingers of one hand Easy stroked Nada’s forehead and cheek. “Where is Poncho?”
The black girl let herself lean against him. “Poncho doesn’t live any one place. Usually he hangs out over in San Francisco, mostly around the tenderloin. I think maybe he brought Jill over to San Francisco that night.”
“You haven’t heard from Jill or Poncho since Saturday?”
“No.” She reached her slender arms around him and hugged him once, then stepped back and away. “Try a bar named Superpop’s on Mason in the tenderloin. They usually know where Poncho is. Are you going to look for him right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Be cautious, will you? Poncho is a nasty son of a bitch sometimes.”
“So am I,” Easy assured her.
CHAPTER 12
T HE FAT MAN FINGERED his pearl necklace and asked Easy. “What’s your favorite show tune, dear heart?”
Easy had just stepped through the tufted red leather doors of Superpop’s bar. “You doing a survey?”
“God bless your ready wit,” said the fat man, shifting on his bar stool. He poked two plump fingers into the bosom of his evening gown to fetch out a large business card. “No, I’m going to do my ten o’clock set at any moment, dear heart, and I’m nothing if not a crowd pleaser.”
“ ‘Mr. Evelyn Jazz, World’s Leading Female Impersonator,’ ” read Easy from the scented card. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jazz.”
“Contrariwise, dear heart.” The blond-wigged fat man snatched his card back, stuffed it down his lacy front. “I specialize in famous stout ladies, past and present. I’m best known for my Sophie Tucker. You look almost old enough to remember the late great Sophie, God rest her soul.”
Superpop’s was about the size and shape of two railroad cars laid end to end. The dominant smell was that of the soap they used to disinfect the urinals. None of the five customers looked to be Poncho. “Has Poncho been in tonight?” Easy asked the female impersonator.
“Oh, him,” said Evelyn Jazz, tugging at his necklace. “You’ll also love my Kate Smith. I jazz it up a little, living up to my name, and throw in a few bumps and grinds while I render God Bless America. It’s a real show stopper.”
“Let’s hope,” said Easy. “What about Poncho?”
The fat man lifted his powdered shoulders. “Ask Superpop.” He reached out and caught Easy’s hand. “Who’s your very favorite plump lady? I’ll put her in the next set especially for you, dear heart.”
“Amy Lowell,” said Easy, moving free.
“God bless you, dear heart.” Evelyn Jazz swung around to face his drink.
Behind the long bar a small weathered old man leaped up and grabbed a rope hanging from the ceiling. A boat whistle went off, the cash register lit up yellow and green. The old man let go the rope, picked up a hammer and a tin pie plate. He whanged the plate several times and shouted, “Happy days are here again!” Dropping the plate and hammer he came toward Easy. “Welcome to Superpop’s. We’re always having a good time here.”
“I noticed,” said
Nada looked away, setting the wine bottle on the olive-colored electric stove. “I don’t know what he actually did for sure,” she said. “All I know is what he told me he was thinking about. They’ve done it before.”
“You didn’t try to stop him.”
“Poncho ain’t somebody you try to stop. Anyhow, Jill wasn’t in any mood to be talked out of anything,” said Nada. “It’s not exactly rape if she went along on her own, is it?”
Easy was directly in front of her. He put his big hands on her bare arms. “You didn’t tell anybody until now. Why?”
“Why do you think? Now I’m worried,” she said. “It’s a long time from Saturday to Wednesday. And I told you I feel maternal sometimes.”
“So finally today you’re worried.”
The pretty girl closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head. “You don’t know all I got to carry around.”
With the fingers of one hand Easy stroked Nada’s forehead and cheek. “Where is Poncho?”
The black girl let herself lean against him. “Poncho doesn’t live any one place. Usually he hangs out over in San Francisco, mostly around the tenderloin. I think maybe he brought Jill over to San Francisco that night.”
“You haven’t heard from Jill or Poncho since Saturday?”
“No.” She reached her slender arms around him and hugged him once, then stepped back and away. “Try a bar named Superpop’s on Mason in the tenderloin. They usually know where Poncho is. Are you going to look for him right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Be cautious, will you? Poncho is a nasty son of a bitch sometimes.”
“So am I,” Easy assured her.
CHAPTER 12
T HE FAT MAN FINGERED his pearl necklace and asked Easy. “What’s your favorite show tune, dear heart?”
Easy had just stepped through the tufted red leather doors of Superpop’s bar. “You doing a survey?”
“God bless your ready wit,” said the fat man, shifting on his bar stool. He poked two plump fingers into the bosom of his evening gown to fetch out a large business card. “No, I’m going to do my ten o’clock set at any moment, dear heart, and I’m nothing if not a crowd pleaser.”
“ ‘Mr. Evelyn Jazz, World’s Leading Female Impersonator,’ ” read Easy from the scented card. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jazz.”
“Contrariwise, dear heart.” The blond-wigged fat man snatched his card back, stuffed it down his lacy front. “I specialize in famous stout ladies, past and present. I’m best known for my Sophie Tucker. You look almost old enough to remember the late great Sophie, God rest her soul.”
Superpop’s was about the size and shape of two railroad cars laid end to end. The dominant smell was that of the soap they used to disinfect the urinals. None of the five customers looked to be Poncho. “Has Poncho been in tonight?” Easy asked the female impersonator.
“Oh, him,” said Evelyn Jazz, tugging at his necklace. “You’ll also love my Kate Smith. I jazz it up a little, living up to my name, and throw in a few bumps and grinds while I render God Bless America. It’s a real show stopper.”
“Let’s hope,” said Easy. “What about Poncho?”
The fat man lifted his powdered shoulders. “Ask Superpop.” He reached out and caught Easy’s hand. “Who’s your very favorite plump lady? I’ll put her in the next set especially for you, dear heart.”
“Amy Lowell,” said Easy, moving free.
“God bless you, dear heart.” Evelyn Jazz swung around to face his drink.
Behind the long bar a small weathered old man leaped up and grabbed a rope hanging from the ceiling. A boat whistle went off, the cash register lit up yellow and green. The old man let go the rope, picked up a hammer and a tin pie plate. He whanged the plate several times and shouted, “Happy days are here again!” Dropping the plate and hammer he came toward Easy. “Welcome to Superpop’s. We’re always having a good time here.”
“I noticed,” said
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