The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
“I got no problem with it,” said Chan.
Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to
interrupt. “But you see, that makes more sense,” I said quickly. “It’s more believable that a
cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a
series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling
on all these murders?”
“That’s the problem with the amateur sleuth in general,” Grania pointed out. Grania,
naturally, wrote about a kick-ass female PI. “It’s totally artificial.”
Chan said reasonably, “I don’t know. A lot of kinky shit goes down in Hollyweird. A
gossip columnist could get sucked into that.”
“Hey, you’re writing about a gay Shakespearean actor solving mysteries,” Max pointed
out to me. “You sold the series to some lunatic fringe publishing house.”
Ted said, “How believable is it that a bookseller and mystery author would get involved
solving mysteries? But you’ve been involved twice in murder cases, Adrien.” Jean nodded
eagerly. “You’re like a real-life amateur sleuth. So it does happen. Truth is stranger than
fiction.”
“Let them write what they want to write,” Max said irritably. “What do you care?”
“I don’t think that Avery’s…likeable.”
Jean looked like she was going to cry, like I’d insulted her precious prune of a newborn.
“You don’t like Avery?”
Ted glared at me.
The entire circle stared at me.
“Not a terribly constructive comment, Adrien,” Grania observed.
* * * * *
When the group at last broke up, I cleared the chairs and crumbs, made sure the side
and front doors were secured, and climbed the stairs to my flat.
I poured myself a drink and tried to think of an entertaining way to fill the rest of the
evening. I don’t think of myself as a loner, but it’s a fact that my friends generally do the
calling. And I’ve never been able to get into the whole club scene. I don’t like crowds. I like
reading.
I’d carried a stack of books upstairs. I lazily skimmed a copy of Rick Copp’s The Actor’s
Guide to Murder. I noticed a lot of these gay amateur sleuths have cop boyfriends. And I
noticed that none of these cops seem particularly closeted. I also noticed that they all seemed
amazingly agreeable about sharing privileged information with their non-cop boyfriends. It
was a shame Jake didn’t read these books.
I was getting into a scene in which Copp’s protag was once again being scolded by his
(yikes!) hazel-eyed, brawny cop boyfriend for sticking his nose into a criminal investigation,
when I noticed the answering machine blinking. I pressed the button, listened to a stiff
Professor Snowden telling me I could call him at a certain number. I picked up, dialed the
number he’d left.
He answered on the fourth ring, sounding as preoccupied as if I’d caught him
correcting final exams.
“Hi, it’s Adrien English.”
There was a pause. “Oh. Er…hello.” Pause.
I opened my mouth to say hello again – it seemed to be one of those conversations –
but Snowden said carefully, “I’ve been unable to get in touch with the person I thought
might know about our mutual friend’s difficulty.”
The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens. I said, “Well, not to
pressure you, but some joker painted a pentagram on my front step last night. The folks at
Dragonwyck seemed to think this was not good.”
Silence stretched on the other end.
“Perhaps we should meet,” he said finally.
I had no problem with that, provided it was in a public place in broad daylight, not
Eaton Canyon at midnight. “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”
* * * * *
Wednesday morning brought fitful sunshine and Lester Naess. Lester was about my
age, very heavy and a talker. He smelled of cigarettes and astringent. By midmorning I’d
heard about his first divorce, his second wife, and his kidney operation. On the bright side,
he wasn’t afraid to deal with the customers. The fear was all on the side of John Q. Public.
Before lunch, Lester had updated me on his gallstones, his second divorce, and his
current girlfriend. Immediately following lunch, he had what he described as “a nicotine fit.”
When he recovered, I slipped out for a Starbucks and a quick nervous breakdown. I phoned
Guy Snowden to tell him I’d have to reschedule our meeting.
“Has something happened?” he asked warily. Possibly it was my tone.
I assured him all was cool, although I couldn’t help wondering: If God works in
mysterious ways, why shouldn’t the Devil seek temporary employment in a mystery
bookstore?
After lunch Lester told me about his angina, his IRS audit, his first heart attack, and his
girlfriend’s lousy teenagers. I decided that another day of Lester, and I’d also be having chest
pains.
I called the agency once more.
* * * * *
Jake dropped by that evening with Chinese takeout and the Alien vs. Predator DVD. I
had closed shop on the ponderous heels of Lester and was trying to drape miniature
Christmas lights along the ceiling. I had the McGarrigle sisters’ Christmas CD playing in the
storeroom, so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear him using his key in the side door.
A floorboard squeaked, I glanced down, and for once, there really was a shadowy figure
coming at me.
“Jesus!” I yelped, nearly overbalancing the ladder.
“Christ!” finished Jake, who also jumped, but managed to make it look more like
someone leaping into battle mode and less like someone about to rocket through the roof.
These tender greetings out of the way, he ordered me down from the ladder, took my
place at the dark beams. I carried the takeout upstairs, emptied out the soggy containers, put
the food into pans to heat later, and briefly studied the DVD cover.
“My money’s on the aliens,” I called, starting back down the staircase.
“Nah,” Jake returned, seriously. “No way. All the aliens have is acid blood. The
predators have body armor and invisibility.”
Ah, yes . I saw why Jake was voting for the predators. Nothing like invisibility when
you need it.
He had already managed to string the lights all along the back partition of the shop. I
