city blues 01 - dome city blues Read Free Page A

What detective (or even ex-detective) could resist finding out which?
    I took a swallow of scotch.  If I asked that first question, I’d have to follow it up with another one, and then ten more after that.  Before I knew it, I’d be up to my neck in this woman’s problems.  I wanted no part of that.
    John nudged me under the table.
    I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.  He was nodding nearly imperceptibly, urging me to go for it.
    I turned my eyes back to the woman.  “I don’t know anything about your brother,” I said, “but I’m sure the cops have their reasons.  I’m not going to second-guess them.”
    The white skin of her cheeks took on the slightest hint of pink.  She swallowed, and then nodded slowly.  “I’m sorry I troubled you, Mr. Stalin.  Thank you for your time.”
    I nodded.
    She started to turn away and then turned back.  “Your new career, do you mind if I ask what it is?”
    Her voice was quiet, her carriage dignified.  Somewhere behind eye shadow tattoos and fuck-me shoes was a woman with character.
    “I’m a sculptor,” I said.  “Metals.”
    A feeble smile tugged at the corners of her lips.  She dropped the old business card on the table and walked away.
    When the door closed behind her, John reached across the table and pressed his fingertips against the inside of my wrist.  His lips moved, as though he was counting under his breath.
    I stared at him.  “What are you doing?”
    “Checking for a pulse,” he said.  “After you let a gorgeous thing like that walk out the door, I was afraid you might be dead.”
    I tugged my arm away.
    John raised his eyebrows.  “You sure weren’t like this in the old days.”  He grinned.  “How about that gun-ship pilot you hooked up with in Porto Alegre?   The Nordic blonde with legs up to her neck?”
    “I remember,” I said.
    I picked up the business card and turned it over.  The front was iridescent silver with our old logo in blue 3-D capitals.
    CARTER AND STALIN
    PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
    M. CARTER    D. STALIN
    The holographic lettering seemed to float two or three centimeters above the card.  Across the back was a data strip containing the office’s address and phone number.
    I’d never liked those cards.  They were too flashy and too expensive.  I’d voted for black printing on white cardboard.  Maggie had loved them, though.  She’d liked the final batch best of all, the ones where her last name had been Stalin , instead of Carter .
    John reached out for the card.  I handed it to him.
    He whistled softly through his teeth.  “I still can’t believe you didn’t go for that,” he said.  He read the card and then tapped the edge of it on the top of the table three or four times.  “I’ll bet you haven’t seen one of these in a long time.”
    “A long time,” I echoed.  I downed the last of the Cutty in a single gulp and called for another.
    John put his hand on my forearm.  “Take it easy, Sarge.  We’ve got all night, buddy.”
    When my new drink came, I closed my eyes, leaned back into the red tucked leather upholstery, and let the voice of Billie Holiday carry me away.
     

CHAPTER 2

    “David, wake up.”
    I opened one eye and fought to drag the green digits of the clock into focus.  The clock won the first round, its readout remained blurry and danced in dizzying circles.
    “David, wake up.  There is someone at the door.”
    I opened the other eye and rubbed them both.  “Okay, House,” I grunted.  “I’m awake.  What’s up?”
    “There is a visitor at the front door, identity unknown.”
    I sat up and stretched, my lower back making unpleasant popping noises.  “House, give me half lighting and a picture of our guest, uh... one-way visual, far wall, life-size, no audio.”
    The room lights slowly faded up to half brightness and the wall across from my bed sizzled to life.
    I was starting to wake up.  The image on the wall screen wasn’t nearly as hard to focus