Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle Read Free

room the Dutchman was in a fullon frenzy. One hand on his waist, one wrist flapping a faggot burlesque, the whites of his eyes laced with ruptured capillaries that shone pink in the half-light.
    The air conditioner was still blasting, and the refrigerated air roiled with cigarette stink and a new offender, a musky cologne Manfred had slathered on. Somebody’d been dispatched to the liquor store. The Ballantine bottle sat drained on a nightstand, but there was a fresh one riding shotgun.
    “Okay,” Harry said, “where am I going?”
    “You know, Harry, you must never fix those teeth. The gaps, I find them terribly hot.” He brought out a twogram vial. It brimmed. “Tootski?”
    Harry glared.
    “Do a little bump with your uncle. Harry, for old times.”
    Harry turned in his bottom lip. The last thing he needed was a toot. A hit, a bump, a blast. He wiped his palms on his jeans. “You know what, Manfred? I’ll take a drink.”
    The bathroom door was open, and the shower was running. Steam humidified the room, and a whiff of the hotel’s brand of shampoo churned in the gumbo of odors. Harry stifled a gag.
    He swallowed Manfred’s stingy measure, grabbed the fifth and poured a shot that’d loosen the knot in his gut. The vial was uncapped again, and Manfred held a heaping spoonful under Harry’s left nostril. Harry passed. Manfred pumped the coke into his own head.
    “What I need from you is the package and the address, and I need to get this over. I don’t feel good about committing another felony three days out of the joint, and I’d just as soon put it behind me. You know what I’m saying?”
    Harry was desperate to get out of the room before whoever it was, the juvie boy-toy, he guessed, climbed out of the shower, but it was already too late. The water quit splashing and he heard the clack of plastic, hooks sliding along the curtain rod. A second later, out stepped a blonde making a show of covering her body with a towel. Two things Harry noticed: her skin tone, basted to a succulent bronze, and her nipples, peaked, brown, peeping over the edge of the towel. How full of changeups could one degenerate Dutchman be?
    “Har-ry,” he said, drawing out both syllables like he was calling him from another room, “This is Jennifer.” The old queen pronounced the J like it was a Y, Yennifer. He knew the difference, but he was way past the point of caring.
    She played it cute, this chick, making no attempt to pull the towel higher. She took a few things from a suitcase, then glancing at Harry, she went back into the bathroom and clicked the door shut.
    “You yum yum,” Manfred slurred. “Shore you can’t spend a few more minutes with your uncle? And Yenny?” He cupped his hand over Harry’s crotch and gave his balls a squeeze.
    Harry gave him an easy shove and said, “Will you give it a rest? Are we gonna do this deal, or what?”
    Jennifer warbled a Patsy Cline tune from behind the door, way off key. Manfred weaved a circular path toward the closet, really gone, and turned around clutching a double-bagged bundle the size of a bar of soap. He stopped to freshen his drink, and handed Harry the package. “One ounce,” he said. He had one eye closed. The other pinwheeled Harry into focus. “One thousand dollars.”
    “What’s the guy expecting to pay?”
    “You be a do-right nephew. You don’t fuck around.”
    “What’d you say I’m getting paid for this?”
    “Come on, Harry. Leo told you the deal. Two hundred bucks.”
    Small potatoes all around. Manfred must’ve been doing somebody a favor. Somebody besides Harry. This was embarrassing.
    “One more question, uncle. What’s to stop me from beating town with your cash? Seriously?”
    Manfred tried to give the impression that he had that angle covered, but Harry saw the possibility was just dawning on him. He blinked twice and said through a squint, “Tragic. Positively tragic. You have no idea how deeply wounded is your uncle.”
    He considered.