Read Online Written in Dead Wax by Andrew Cartmel - Free Book Online

go through it when suddenly a man’s voice shouted from inside.
    “Easy, easy, easy!”
    I ran into the sitting room. Nevada was standing there—a study in dynamic tension, arm extended rigidly, holding my largest and sharpest kitchen knife.
    She was aiming it at Stinky who was standing by the sofa, his face pale and his composure fled for once. “Easy,” he said.
    “Christ,” hissed Nevada. She lowered the knife and looked at me. “What is he doing here?”
    “I have no idea,” I said.
    “I just walked in and saw someone was here and I grabbed this.” She waved the knife. “He scared the shit out of me.”
    The colour was starting to return to Stinky’s face. “Likewise,” he said, “I’m sure.”
    “You shut up for a minute,” said Nevada. She turned to me. “You had no idea he’d be here?”
    “Of course not,” I said.
    “How did he get in?”
    “I, um, let myself in,” said Stinky. He held up the keys.
    Nevada set the knife down on the dining table and went and snatched the keys from him. “How did he get hold of these?” She waved them at me accusingly.
    “I leave them outside.”
    “Outside?”
    “Under the plant pot.”
    “The plant pot?” she demanded.
    “Yes, that’s right, the plant pot,” said Stinky.
    “You shut up,” she said.
    “In case I lock myself out,” I explained. The cats, who had wisely made themselves scarce during the armed confrontation, began to emerge from hiding. Turk jumped up onto the sofa and Fanny went to her favourite chair. Business as usual. Nevada watched them for a moment, then looked at Stinky.
    “Why didn’t you wait outside with the cats?”
    I said, “If he’d waited outside, they would have waited
inside
.” One of the things that endeared the little monsters to me was that they couldn’t stand Stinky.
    “I couldn’t wait outside,” said Stinky. “My fans would have recognised me.”
    “Your fans?” said Nevada, managing to combine contempt and incomprehension in about equal measure.
    “I have a radio show.”
    Nevada made a snorting sound that couldn’t quite be described as laughter. “And they’d recognise you from that? They’d recognise your face from the radio?”
    “Stinky has also been on television,” I added reluctantly.
    “And I’m also very active on the Internet.”
    “I’m sure you are,” said Nevada. It was impressive how she didn’t actually add the words “No doubt surfing for porn, you pathetic loser,” yet we all clearly understood that’s what she meant. Stinky returned to the sofa from which he’d so recently risen in fear for his life. Nevada glanced at my hi-fi. “Your thermionic valves are on,” she said.
    I nodded. “So they are.”
    “I’ve been listening to CDs,” said Stinky. He casually sat down on the sofa, ignoring Turk, who snarled at him and jumped down. “There’s nothing quite like dropping the needle,” continued Stinky, addressing Nevada and ignoring me, “but you have to listen to something while you’re changing records.” Had he actually forgotten he’d stolen that line from me?
    “Well, I hate to be rude,” said Nevada. “But we have business to discuss.”
    “Business?” said Stinky, looking from her to me. I went to the CD player and took out the disc. He’d been listening to
Bullitt
by Lalo Schifrin.
    “Yes,” said Nevada. I found the CD case for
Bullitt
and opened it to find that it contained
The Taking of Pelham 123
by David Shire. I sighed and looked for the CD case for that, opened it and, logically enough, found that it contained
The Organization
by Gil Mellé.
    “What sort of business?” said Stinky. I found the Mellé case, which was empty, duly put the correct disc back in there, then restored the Shire and Schifrin CDs to their rightful cases. The old CD switcharoo. One of Stinky’s many annoying habits. Useful for anyone who wanted to do a forensic analysis of his listening habits, but otherwise just plain annoying.
    Stinky repeated,