Blues in the Night Read Free

I’m ready for a little hormone fix, myself.’
    Mace sighed.
    â€˜Whoa. Watch out for Mr Back-door Man.’
    â€˜If I didn’t know better,’ Mace said, staying focused on the subject’s apartment, ‘I’d take you for some snot-nose kid on his first trip to what they laughingly call a gentleman’s club.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah?’ Wylie said, obviously stung. ‘Well . . . go fuck yourself.’
    â€˜You’re the one who’s turned on,’ Mace replied calmly.
    â€˜What turns you on, big man?’ Wylie said heatedly. ‘Little boys?’
    Mace watched the subject enter her living room dressed in a robe, rubbing her blonde hair with a towel, her face shiny from night cream. She crossed the room and moved just past the wide window and out of view.
    â€˜Pro work,’ he said. ‘That turns me on.’
    The subject walked back into his line of sight carrying a thick book. A coffee-table book. Probably an art book, Mace thought. He’d been told she was an art appraiser, an artist herself.
    He liked the way she moved, a graceful glide. He couldn’t see her feet, but he imagined they were bare, luxuriating in the soft texture of the carpet.
    â€˜You saying what? That I’m not a pro?’ Wylie asked, more hurt now than angry.
    â€˜I’m saying you should concentrate on the job.’
    The subject turned out the living room light. Mace started a countdown. One hundred. One hundred and one. One hundred and two. One hundred and—
    A light went on behind the bedroom drapes.
    Mace lowered his binoculars and placed them on the table. ‘She’s tucked in,’ he said.
    Wylie was glaring at him. ‘So you don’t think I’m a pro, huh?’
    In point of fact, Mace thought he was a hopeless jackass. He’d formed that opinion as soon as he’d laid eyes on him at LAX that afternoon. But he didn’t know how long they’d be cooping, so he said, ‘Right now, I’m jet-lagged, bone-tired and pissed off at the world in general. If Paulie Lacotta gives you a paycheck, you’re a pro. OK?’
    Wylie still wasn’t happy. ‘I’m pro enough to stay out of the joint,’ he said, half to himself.
    â€˜Good point,’ Mace said, letting it slide. ‘OK if I fade for a while?’
    â€˜Do what you want,’ Wylie said, raising the binoculars. ‘You’re the pro.’
    There were two beds in the room. One was filled with Wylie’s crap; a black plastic shell, ear phones, a razor, a head set, various plugs and wires, candy bars, rubbers, a Dopp Kit bulging with colognes and creams.
    Mace sat on the other bed and started taking off his shoes.
    â€˜Yo, Mace,’ Wylie said, shifting moods gracelessly. ‘We might as well make this as homeboy as we can. You stay off my back, I stay off yours. OK?’
    â€˜Sounds like a plan,’ Mace said, stretching out. ‘Give me a couple hours and I’ll spell you.’
    â€˜The bitch isn’t goin’ anywhere. What’s the harm if I grab some Z’s, too?’
    Mace stopped the sarcastic reply that came immediately to mind. ‘You never know what a subject will do,’ he said. ‘If she cuts and runs while we’re snoozing, Paulie will see to it we both get lots of rest.’
    â€˜You know Mr Lacotta a long time, huh?’
    â€˜Long enough,’ Mace said, closing his eyes.

TWO
    A t roughly eight fifteen the next morning, Paulie Lacotta slipped his SL55 into a visitor slot in front of the Florian. He was about to open his door when he saw a yellow Mustang convertible departing from the bi-level parking garage to the left of the apartment hotel. The top was down and the driver’s blonde hair flowed in the wind as the car zoomed past.
    He’d be damned if convertibles weren’t made for blondes to drive.
    He wondered where she was headed at – looking at his watch – eight sixteen