Read Online Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy by Shelley Singer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shelley Singer
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Mystery, post apocalyptic, End of the world, casino, near future, spy fiction, new world, scifi thriller, Tahoe
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posing this way, that way, glancing over my shoulder, smiling, smoldering, head shots, full body, to the waist. He took his time. My stomach was growling.
Finally he was finished.
“Okay, Rica! That’s just great. We got a bunch of good ones. You want to look them over?”
“I trust you, Monte.” It was always more important to make a friend than it was to guard my ego. He smiled happily and escorted me out of the cage.
After I’d trotted upstairs and changed into normal clothing, a pair of denim pants and a blue striped shirt, I passed the restaurant again and saw that the help wanted sign was gone and the doors were open. But since the new cook was a question mark and I’d rather not see Waldo again so soon anyway, I decided that I might as well take Bernard’s enthusiastic recommendation.
Outside the front door, a barker was urging passersby to “Come in for a Blackjack win!” I remembered seeing him at the back door after the raid. He was wearing the same gold jumpsuit with white braid. When I passed him, I saw that his eyes were foggy and blind. He looked to be in his fifties, so he’d have been a child when the poison began. Some of the chem-bombs did this to people. His nameplate said he was called Owen.
The Blue Chip was a small diner with a counter, a dozen booths and tables, three of them occupied, and a round table in the front window. One server, she had varicose veins and a black comb stuck through her dyed flat-brown hair, worked the tables; a fiftyish man took care of the register and probably the counter trade when there was some. He looked an awful lot like the change guy at the casino. Pale, bald, wearing a frayed pink shirt.
When I saw my breakfast, I was sure he was related to Bernard the spy. No one but a relative could have recommended the food there. The eggs over medium were a mess of broken yolk and crisped white. The toast and home fries were as damp and white as the man at the register. I ate what I could with lots of ketchup and hot sauce, left a decent tip on the counter and took my check to the register where he was standing reading a newspaper.
“Enjoy your food?” The man took my money and laboriously counted out the change.
“Yes. Very good.” He did a double take. Maybe no one had ever answered the question that way before. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
He grinned, nodding happily. “Well, thanks. Haven’t seen you around before.” He raised one thin eyebrow in what I supposed was flirtation. He must have thought he was on a roll. “I’m Xavier Polsky.”
“Rica Marin. New in town. Working over at Blackjack.”
His puffy eyelids dropped, covering his thoughts. Was he connected with the Colemans’ enemies, too, like the change guy, or did he just know that his clone was a spy? “Oh, yeah? They do real well over there. Working as a dealer?”
“No. Waiter. And singer, as soon as they open the room. Bernard, one of the change people? He recommended you.”
He nodded, still looking at the counter. “No kidding. Well, that’s nice. Bernard’s my cousin.” Aha! “Nice of him to send you here, and nice that you’re a singer. Maybe you’ll come over and do a number once in a while, huh?” He laughed and looked up at me, raising that eyebrow again. I laughed too, and left it at that.
“Maybe you can direct me to the newspaper office?”
He raised an arm and pointed east. “Right down the street here about a block and a half.”
“Thanks.” I turned to leave.
“Real nice people, those Colemans.” He was definitely protesting too much, or he was scared of them.
“Yes, they seem to be.” Nice. I started walking toward the door.
He called after me: “Well, you take care, then.” I sent him a backward wave on my way out. I was a couple of buildings down from the diner when I noticed a poster tacked to the wall, a political poster for a candidate for Sierra Council. This was the first advertising I’d seen for the elections, which the poster
Finally he was finished.
“Okay, Rica! That’s just great. We got a bunch of good ones. You want to look them over?”
“I trust you, Monte.” It was always more important to make a friend than it was to guard my ego. He smiled happily and escorted me out of the cage.
After I’d trotted upstairs and changed into normal clothing, a pair of denim pants and a blue striped shirt, I passed the restaurant again and saw that the help wanted sign was gone and the doors were open. But since the new cook was a question mark and I’d rather not see Waldo again so soon anyway, I decided that I might as well take Bernard’s enthusiastic recommendation.
Outside the front door, a barker was urging passersby to “Come in for a Blackjack win!” I remembered seeing him at the back door after the raid. He was wearing the same gold jumpsuit with white braid. When I passed him, I saw that his eyes were foggy and blind. He looked to be in his fifties, so he’d have been a child when the poison began. Some of the chem-bombs did this to people. His nameplate said he was called Owen.
The Blue Chip was a small diner with a counter, a dozen booths and tables, three of them occupied, and a round table in the front window. One server, she had varicose veins and a black comb stuck through her dyed flat-brown hair, worked the tables; a fiftyish man took care of the register and probably the counter trade when there was some. He looked an awful lot like the change guy at the casino. Pale, bald, wearing a frayed pink shirt.
When I saw my breakfast, I was sure he was related to Bernard the spy. No one but a relative could have recommended the food there. The eggs over medium were a mess of broken yolk and crisped white. The toast and home fries were as damp and white as the man at the register. I ate what I could with lots of ketchup and hot sauce, left a decent tip on the counter and took my check to the register where he was standing reading a newspaper.
“Enjoy your food?” The man took my money and laboriously counted out the change.
“Yes. Very good.” He did a double take. Maybe no one had ever answered the question that way before. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
He grinned, nodding happily. “Well, thanks. Haven’t seen you around before.” He raised one thin eyebrow in what I supposed was flirtation. He must have thought he was on a roll. “I’m Xavier Polsky.”
“Rica Marin. New in town. Working over at Blackjack.”
His puffy eyelids dropped, covering his thoughts. Was he connected with the Colemans’ enemies, too, like the change guy, or did he just know that his clone was a spy? “Oh, yeah? They do real well over there. Working as a dealer?”
“No. Waiter. And singer, as soon as they open the room. Bernard, one of the change people? He recommended you.”
He nodded, still looking at the counter. “No kidding. Well, that’s nice. Bernard’s my cousin.” Aha! “Nice of him to send you here, and nice that you’re a singer. Maybe you’ll come over and do a number once in a while, huh?” He laughed and looked up at me, raising that eyebrow again. I laughed too, and left it at that.
“Maybe you can direct me to the newspaper office?”
He raised an arm and pointed east. “Right down the street here about a block and a half.”
“Thanks.” I turned to leave.
“Real nice people, those Colemans.” He was definitely protesting too much, or he was scared of them.
“Yes, they seem to be.” Nice. I started walking toward the door.
He called after me: “Well, you take care, then.” I sent him a backward wave on my way out. I was a couple of buildings down from the diner when I noticed a poster tacked to the wall, a political poster for a candidate for Sierra Council. This was the first advertising I’d seen for the elections, which the poster
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