Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians Read Free

Rialto Brothers Circus had been just as happy to see the back of me as I’d been to split.  
    I shoved those oh-so-happy thoughts back into their little black box. “Something like that.”
    “We can subpoena your records.”
    “Uh huh,” I answered, unconcerned. Since I hadn’t completed the job, there was no report on file for the client. There’d been no notes to take and I’d be giving the envelope back to my client as soon as possible. “So then I’m free to go?”
    “As long as you come by the station later to sign your statement and look at mug shots.”
    There was no good way to tell him that would be an exercise in futility. Still, later sounded sufficiently vague.
    “Later then,” I answered, already halfway to the door.
    Armani let me go, but I could feel his eyes on me all the way out. I was tempted to peel off the jacket to give him a real show, my sports bra ending well above the waistline of the pants, but the envelope sat in the special inside pocket of the jacket and I wasn’t sure I was smooth enough not to send it flying. Besides, I wasn’t all that certain to be a crowd-pleaser. A shortly thereafter ex -boyfriend had once described me as “good enough for television”, which in this town was a slap in the face. It meant that with my unruly black hair, dark eyes and slight build, I probably wouldn’t break the camera but neither would I carry a show on the big screen.
    Unless, of course, it was the sideshow I’d just embroiled myself in.

Chapter Two
     
    “Sometimes when you look a gift-horse in the mouth you get bit—and sometimes you get that green slobber all over your hands that comes from them eating grass all day. I’m not saying don’t do it. Just be prepared.”
    —Uncle Christos
     
    There was nothing I wanted more than to find a highway and drive , fast and furious. Not that I could outrace my thoughts, but having every last wit focused on hazards and speed traps ought to put them on hold—at least until the near-death experience of the whole thing snapped them into perspective. Unfortunately, I’d mistimed my escape to coincide with rush hour. The slow crawl was enough to drive me out of my mind.
    By the time I reached my office, I was literally shaking—arms, legs, hell, brain cells all doing the jitterbug. Shock had set in or maybe worn off. Had I really just been all flippant with the police practically over Circe’s dead body? What the hell was wrong with me? I’d heard of gallows humor, but this was the first time I’d participated—assuming that anything I’d said could remotely be accounted humorous.
    Jesus (ironically pronounced “Hey-Zeus” and, again, no relation), the part-time assistant I’d inherited from my uncle along with the fichus, the caseload and the rent on a second-floor office in a historic building downtown, was gone by the time I arrived. Uncle Christos had described the place as charming—and it was, if charming meant cracked tiles in the entryway, cracked paint on the walls and nary a closet. I couldn’t help but think that any one of those noir detectives whose exploits I’d devoured in my youth—Marlowe, Archer, Hammer, Spade—would have been at home in the seedy surroundings.
    On the upside, we had high ceilings, honest-to-God moldings and warmly painted walls that I called buttermilk, but that Jesus assured me was “crème anglaise”. Since Jesus, as the only one who understood our filing system, was the keeper of all knowledge, it wasn’t wise to cross him. I let him have his little victory. The sepia-tone pictures of old L.A. Uncle Christos had spaced around the office added class, but did nothing to liven the place up.  
    Just to thumb my nose at all the gravitas, I’d added touches to my own office, like the singing fish mounted above my door, which for sanity’s sake I’d removed the batteries from within a week. I’d also strung chili-pepper lights above my windows for the pleasingly tacky effect. There didn’t