Read Online Too Sweet to Die by Ron Goulart, Llc Ebook Architects - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ron Goulart, Llc Ebook Architects
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daughter.”
“Let me know when I can see one of your films,” said Superpop as Easy left the bar.
“Aren’t you sticking around for my set, dear heart?” asked Evelyn Jazz at the doorway.
“Reluctantly,” said Easy, “I have to go some place else.”
“Try to get back for the midnight show,” suggested the fat man. “That’s when I really let my hair down.”
Easy pushed out into the night street.
CHAPTER 13
S IX OLD MEN SAT in the small brown lobby of the Pearl Hotel. The dim movie unwinding on the battered television set was flecked with black snow. Some of the slumped old men were watching it, others were facing the night street beyond the lobby window. Out there two platinum-haired boy prostitutes in leather clothes were hustling a Negro sailor.
Easy cut across a thin lobby rug that looked like discarded camouflage. Dusty plastic ferns in a cracked urn stood in front of the hotel desk in the corner of the lobby. A fifty-five-year-old man with an eyepatch over his left eye was behind the knotty pine counter reading the green sports pages of tomorrow’s Chronicle.
The one-eyed clerk looked up, asking, “Who won the game?”
“Our side,” said Easy. “Is Phil Tucker in?”
“Whom?”
Easy produced his flat wallet. “Phil Tucker. We call him Poncho. Dean Constance sent me over with some money for him.”
“Poncho you say?”
Taking a five out of the wallet, Easy said, “We’re very anxious to settle this debt.” He dropped the bill next to the green sheets.
The one-eyed man placed a gloved hand over the money. “I know you can’t be a cop. Or you’d be asking me for money. Why do you want Poncho?”
“He did some acting for us and we still owe him two hundred bucks.”
The one-eyed man picked up the five dollars with his ungloved hand, dropping it into the pocket of his faded Hawaiian shirt. “Poncho is out.”
“Out where?”
“Out, out.”
An old man in a loose double-breasted suit began to laugh and point at the window. “Son of a gun.”
One of the boy hustlers was kissing the black sailor on the mouth.
“Takes all kinds,” observed the clerk.
“Poncho does have a room here at the Pearl?” asked Easy.
The one-eyed man tilted his narrow head in the direction of the mail cubbyholes behind him. “That he does.”
Easy leaned an elbow on the registration desk. “Maybe I can leave the money then.”
“I’ll see he gets it.” The clerk held out his ungloved hand. “My name is Onesy LaChance. Anybody around here can vouch for me.”
Shaking hands, Easy asked, “Onesy?”
“A nickname,” explained Onesy. “Due to the fact I got only one of everything. One eye, one arm, one leg, one nut, et cetera.”
Easy was still holding his wallet. “I tell you, Onesy, I’d feel better if I could leave the dough right in his room for him.”
The clerk’s single blue eye narrowed. “I don’t know that’s quite kosher.”
The old man in the limp brown suit said, “You old coots won’t see anything like that on the TV.”
Easy put another five-dollar bill on the counter.
Onesy put his false hand over it. “I guess you’re legit.” His good hand went into a pocket of his sharkskin slacks. “Here’s a passkey. Room 204. One floor up, you can use the stairs over there. If you’re there more than five minutes I’ll come up for you.”
The second floor corridor had once been painted a delicatessen green. It smelled of unchanged sheets and dying old men. The phone in 204 was ringing as Easy approached the room. No one answered and it stopped. Street laughter drifted up through the half-open window at the corridor’s end.
After standing in front of the green door for a moment, Easy used the passkey. He pushed the door in hard, let it stand open. Finally he stepped across the threshold.
The empty room had two windows covered with brittle lace curtains. There was a metal frame bed, painted a flat white. The neon glowing out on Eddy Street illuminated the
“Let me know when I can see one of your films,” said Superpop as Easy left the bar.
“Aren’t you sticking around for my set, dear heart?” asked Evelyn Jazz at the doorway.
“Reluctantly,” said Easy, “I have to go some place else.”
“Try to get back for the midnight show,” suggested the fat man. “That’s when I really let my hair down.”
Easy pushed out into the night street.
CHAPTER 13
S IX OLD MEN SAT in the small brown lobby of the Pearl Hotel. The dim movie unwinding on the battered television set was flecked with black snow. Some of the slumped old men were watching it, others were facing the night street beyond the lobby window. Out there two platinum-haired boy prostitutes in leather clothes were hustling a Negro sailor.
Easy cut across a thin lobby rug that looked like discarded camouflage. Dusty plastic ferns in a cracked urn stood in front of the hotel desk in the corner of the lobby. A fifty-five-year-old man with an eyepatch over his left eye was behind the knotty pine counter reading the green sports pages of tomorrow’s Chronicle.
The one-eyed clerk looked up, asking, “Who won the game?”
“Our side,” said Easy. “Is Phil Tucker in?”
“Whom?”
Easy produced his flat wallet. “Phil Tucker. We call him Poncho. Dean Constance sent me over with some money for him.”
“Poncho you say?”
Taking a five out of the wallet, Easy said, “We’re very anxious to settle this debt.” He dropped the bill next to the green sheets.
The one-eyed man placed a gloved hand over the money. “I know you can’t be a cop. Or you’d be asking me for money. Why do you want Poncho?”
“He did some acting for us and we still owe him two hundred bucks.”
The one-eyed man picked up the five dollars with his ungloved hand, dropping it into the pocket of his faded Hawaiian shirt. “Poncho is out.”
“Out where?”
“Out, out.”
An old man in a loose double-breasted suit began to laugh and point at the window. “Son of a gun.”
One of the boy hustlers was kissing the black sailor on the mouth.
“Takes all kinds,” observed the clerk.
“Poncho does have a room here at the Pearl?” asked Easy.
The one-eyed man tilted his narrow head in the direction of the mail cubbyholes behind him. “That he does.”
Easy leaned an elbow on the registration desk. “Maybe I can leave the money then.”
“I’ll see he gets it.” The clerk held out his ungloved hand. “My name is Onesy LaChance. Anybody around here can vouch for me.”
Shaking hands, Easy asked, “Onesy?”
“A nickname,” explained Onesy. “Due to the fact I got only one of everything. One eye, one arm, one leg, one nut, et cetera.”
Easy was still holding his wallet. “I tell you, Onesy, I’d feel better if I could leave the dough right in his room for him.”
The clerk’s single blue eye narrowed. “I don’t know that’s quite kosher.”
The old man in the limp brown suit said, “You old coots won’t see anything like that on the TV.”
Easy put another five-dollar bill on the counter.
Onesy put his false hand over it. “I guess you’re legit.” His good hand went into a pocket of his sharkskin slacks. “Here’s a passkey. Room 204. One floor up, you can use the stairs over there. If you’re there more than five minutes I’ll come up for you.”
The second floor corridor had once been painted a delicatessen green. It smelled of unchanged sheets and dying old men. The phone in 204 was ringing as Easy approached the room. No one answered and it stopped. Street laughter drifted up through the half-open window at the corridor’s end.
After standing in front of the green door for a moment, Easy used the passkey. He pushed the door in hard, let it stand open. Finally he stepped across the threshold.
The empty room had two windows covered with brittle lace curtains. There was a metal frame bed, painted a flat white. The neon glowing out on Eddy Street illuminated the
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