Read Online Whiskey Sour Noir (The Hard Stuff) by Mickey J. Corrigan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mickey J. Corrigan
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my drink in a concentrated whoosh. He kept looking at me in this way he has. Indecent, but distant. Like a sex god or a pimp.
“Nice to meet you, Tami Lee,” he said.
No trace of a hick accent. Polite, but dangerous. My heart rappelled off my chest and my nipples hardened. I have a thing for bad boys. Not sure why. I’m in the counseling business by default, not because I can figure out what makes the human tick or lie back with a smile.
After Avery left to tend to a rowdy redhead at the far end of the bar, Peter gave me a look. “He’s got one of them so-so labels, Tami Lee. Bum rap. He’ll tell you soon enough.” Peter clinked his beer glass against mine.
Clinking back, I nodded. Nothing new in these parts. Half the guys in my motel had a sex offender rap. There wasn’t a daycare center, park, or school within six blocks of Pearl Street. Registered sex offenders could legally live and work in west Dusky Beach. Many of them did. Not a one had ever bothered me.
I sipped my beer and looked around. We weren’t the only ones having drinks at the Kettle at three-fifteen on a Monday afternoon, so Avery was up and down the bar, fetching and making quick comments about the Gulf Stream disaster. The cash register dinged, he ring-a-linged the tip bell. He seemed awful damn comfortable for a new guy on the back end of a federal stretch and the front end of a climate collision.
I asked him about himself when he returned to our end of the bar. He acted like he wasn’t a bit busy and gave us his full attention. He sipped on a sweet-smelling glass of pineapple juice. He liked to talk, didn’t listen too much. He was into his own story. Most attractive men are like that. And I’m not one for personal revelations anyway. I’d rather take in a tall tale than tell my own. In a bar. To a stranger. Especially in west Dusky Beach, where I worked, lived, and ran around a little too much.
Now, don’t get the wrong idea. Dusky Beach proper is real nice. White sand beaches with lots of pretty little shells. Cutesy strips of pink and teal T-shirt shops, ice cream parlors, and pizza places with early-bird specials for the old folks. Five churches, real ones with steeples and asphalt parking lots. Nice clean schools with windows for the kids to stare out, not like some I’ve seen in the big cities, where the local prison has a more accommodating look. Over in east Dusky Beach, there’s a little downtown off Beach Street with the city hall and the library, both historic buildings from 1960-something. In this part of the world, anything older than a couple decades is automatically historic. Maybe because nothing lasts very long here in the dirty Sunshine State.
West Dusky Beach, now that’s a whole different pad of paper. I’m talking about the part of town where the churches are located in somebody’s house for tax purposes, and the stores have one thing for sale in the window and something else entirely in the back room. That’s where I live, in a run-down day motel called Love House. Yup, I know, but you can’t beat the long-term rates. Plus, I can walk to work. The DIC facility is huge, includes a homeless shelter for overnights, a soup kitchen serving three meals a day, plus day rooms for community use, group counseling, and support. Mostly we get drunks, addicts, abused women and kids, and crazies without the wits to stay on their meds. We get a lot of sex offenders because the state laws for so-so parolees and those on probation are mighty strict. Those people can’t live anywhere decent. They lose their jobs and run out of dough. That’s how Cat Avery ended up in the neighborhood. Like a lot of other folks I know down this way. In west Dusky Beach, you learn to live with them.
Avery suckled his juice and said like it was nothing, “Just got out of prison. Five years on a child porn charge. Didn’t do it. I was set up.” He looked right at me. His eyes were clear blue-gray, like the sea on a stormy day. “I’m
“Nice to meet you, Tami Lee,” he said.
No trace of a hick accent. Polite, but dangerous. My heart rappelled off my chest and my nipples hardened. I have a thing for bad boys. Not sure why. I’m in the counseling business by default, not because I can figure out what makes the human tick or lie back with a smile.
After Avery left to tend to a rowdy redhead at the far end of the bar, Peter gave me a look. “He’s got one of them so-so labels, Tami Lee. Bum rap. He’ll tell you soon enough.” Peter clinked his beer glass against mine.
Clinking back, I nodded. Nothing new in these parts. Half the guys in my motel had a sex offender rap. There wasn’t a daycare center, park, or school within six blocks of Pearl Street. Registered sex offenders could legally live and work in west Dusky Beach. Many of them did. Not a one had ever bothered me.
I sipped my beer and looked around. We weren’t the only ones having drinks at the Kettle at three-fifteen on a Monday afternoon, so Avery was up and down the bar, fetching and making quick comments about the Gulf Stream disaster. The cash register dinged, he ring-a-linged the tip bell. He seemed awful damn comfortable for a new guy on the back end of a federal stretch and the front end of a climate collision.
I asked him about himself when he returned to our end of the bar. He acted like he wasn’t a bit busy and gave us his full attention. He sipped on a sweet-smelling glass of pineapple juice. He liked to talk, didn’t listen too much. He was into his own story. Most attractive men are like that. And I’m not one for personal revelations anyway. I’d rather take in a tall tale than tell my own. In a bar. To a stranger. Especially in west Dusky Beach, where I worked, lived, and ran around a little too much.
Now, don’t get the wrong idea. Dusky Beach proper is real nice. White sand beaches with lots of pretty little shells. Cutesy strips of pink and teal T-shirt shops, ice cream parlors, and pizza places with early-bird specials for the old folks. Five churches, real ones with steeples and asphalt parking lots. Nice clean schools with windows for the kids to stare out, not like some I’ve seen in the big cities, where the local prison has a more accommodating look. Over in east Dusky Beach, there’s a little downtown off Beach Street with the city hall and the library, both historic buildings from 1960-something. In this part of the world, anything older than a couple decades is automatically historic. Maybe because nothing lasts very long here in the dirty Sunshine State.
West Dusky Beach, now that’s a whole different pad of paper. I’m talking about the part of town where the churches are located in somebody’s house for tax purposes, and the stores have one thing for sale in the window and something else entirely in the back room. That’s where I live, in a run-down day motel called Love House. Yup, I know, but you can’t beat the long-term rates. Plus, I can walk to work. The DIC facility is huge, includes a homeless shelter for overnights, a soup kitchen serving three meals a day, plus day rooms for community use, group counseling, and support. Mostly we get drunks, addicts, abused women and kids, and crazies without the wits to stay on their meds. We get a lot of sex offenders because the state laws for so-so parolees and those on probation are mighty strict. Those people can’t live anywhere decent. They lose their jobs and run out of dough. That’s how Cat Avery ended up in the neighborhood. Like a lot of other folks I know down this way. In west Dusky Beach, you learn to live with them.
Avery suckled his juice and said like it was nothing, “Just got out of prison. Five years on a child porn charge. Didn’t do it. I was set up.” He looked right at me. His eyes were clear blue-gray, like the sea on a stormy day. “I’m
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