Fugitive Nights Read Free Page A

full of Leroy Neiman’s nervous sports prints, as well as lots of boxing photos. Undoubtedly, he was the kind of guy who wouldn’t travel without his Water Pik.
    â€œHello,” he croaked into the boxing glove. He heard a muffled reply and turned the phone right side up. “Yeah?”
    A woman’s voice said, “Detective Cutter?”
    â€œYeah, who’s this?” He felt like somebody had inflated his skull with mustard gas.
    â€œIs it a bad time to call?”
    â€œNo, it’s a bad day to call. What day is this?”
    â€œIt’s Monday, February fourth.”
    â€œWhat year ?”
    â€œAm I disturbing you?”
    â€œNo, I had to get up and puke anyway. Who the hell is this?”
    â€œMy name’s Breda Burrows,” she said. “I’m a P.I. here in Palm Springs, retired from LAPD.”
    â€œYeah, so whadda … oh, shit!”
    Lynn Cutter slouched from bed in his gray silk pajama bottoms (property of the guy who was nutted out over boxers) and scuttled toward the bathroom like somebody trying to run underwater. Because the bathroom was bigger than the Palm Springs police station he didn’t quite get to the toilet, but did manage to upchuck in a Jacuzzi tub with gold-plated faucets.
    Lynn went down on the cool tile for a minute, examining a crumbled line of grout from a roach’s-eye view. He raised up, wiped his mouth on a monogrammed towel, and picked up the extension: a Sports Illustrated phone shaped like a sneaker.
    Speaking from the supine position, he said, “I’m dying.”
    â€œI can call back in thirty minutes.”
    â€œThey’ll be pulling a sheet over me,” he moaned. “Look, lady, it ain’t easy talking into a tennis shoe. Whaddaya want?”
    â€œWell, Detective Cutter,” she began, then thought it sounded stiff and formal. So she said, “Whadda your friends call you?”
    â€œI don’t have any.” He was feeling more bile bubbling and rising. “But mother calls me Lynn. Kiss her for me. I’m all through.”
    â€œLynn?”
    â€œYeah, Lynn! I know! Marion Morrison didn’t like a girl’s name and changed it to John Wayne! I know! Lynn’s not a common name but life wasn’t easy for a boy named Sue, was it? Now, lady, will you tell me what the hell you want this time a morning?”
    â€œIt’s one o’clock in the afternoon, Lynn.”
    â€œMorning, afternoon! Kee-rist, have a heart!”
    â€œCan I drive over and talk to you? I have something to discuss that might be to our mutual advantage.”
    He paused, then said, “Save your gas. I ain’t about to jeopardize a disability pension by doing favors for private eyes, okay?”
    â€œHey, I wouldn’t jeopardize your pension,” she said. “We’re in the same society. Society of the badge.”
    â€œUsed to be. You ain’t carrying a badge no more. Far as I’m concerned, you’re just fuzz that was . Like just about every other P.I. I ever met. Fuzz that was .”
    â€œBut I’ll always be a cop at heart,” she said. “How about a brief meeting?”
    â€œI gotta go,” he said. Then it occurred to him. “How’d you get my number?” He wobbled to his feet, weaved a bit, and considered peeing in the bathtub.
    â€œI’ll tell you,” she said, “if you’ll meet me for lunch.”
    â€œLunch?” He’d only raised his voice to twelve decibels, slightly louder than the sound of human breathing, but it sounded like a concussion grenade. When he turned on the faucet he heard Chinese New Year.
    â€œHow about a drink?” she asked. “Let’s meet in one hour and have a drink. Whadda you got to lose?”
    â€œThe Furnace Room,” he said, spotting an empty cognac bottle on the counter beside one of the bathroom sinks. The only thing he remembered clearly was that what’s-her-name