The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
A pause followed my greeting. Then, “We’re watching you,” whispered the voice on
the other end.
“Yeah? Did you see what I did with my keys?”
Silence. Then dial tone.
These younger demons. So easily discouraged.
Not discouraged enough, though, I had to admit half an hour later as I negotiated my
way into the river of cars flooding the I-210. I got my cell phone out and dialed Guy
Snowden’s number.
No answer.
Was the man ever home? I left a message, flipped shut the cell, and returned my
attention to insinuating my way into the fast lane.
The good news was that they apparently only had the shop number. The bad news was
that, regardless of what Guy believed, the minions of evil were still way too interested in my
corner of the cosmos.
Why?
I merged onto the C-118, considering this objectively.
* * * * *
Down in the valley, the valley so low, lights glittered in the blackness like jewels in a
pirate’s chest. The Odyssey offers a spectacular view of the San Fernando Valley at night if
you can get a table by a window. The councilman could and did.
“Glad you could make it, Adrien,” he said gruffly, giving me another of those
industrial-sized handshakes. His eyes bored into me under the shaggy eyebrows.
I batted something inane back, and we settled into our game.
Over drinks we discussed cars, gas prices, traffic, California’s economy, and scotch
versus whiskey. Or maybe it was whiskey versus scotch. Bill was drinking Johnny Walker
Black Label, which apparently wasn’t up to scratch. I stuck to Chivas Regal, and apparently
that was also for the tourists. He promised me the life-altering experience of a “wee dram” of
Laphroaig at Christmas. I declared myself ready and willing, and wondered if there was any
chance in hell of avoiding a full-scale family Christmas with “the troops,” as Bill referred to
his harem.
Classical music and the murmur of voices from other tables filled the silences, which
fortunately weren’t many.
We ordered, both opting for seafood, for which the Odyssey is justly famous. Over our
meals, Bill filled me in on what a city councilman actually does. I wasn’t sure I was getting
my tax money’s worth.
The soft lights, sweet music, and gallons of alcohol began to have their effect. Bill’s
keen eye grew less keen, his voice went deep and resonant with emotion.
“When Eleanor, my first wife, died, I believed that I would never remarry, never find
anyone who could begin to fill that void. I’ve known and admired Lisa – your mother – for
many years, but I never dreamed…”
I nodded – not so much in encouragement as indicating that he need say no more.
He went on to tell me that obviously no one would have to tell me how beautiful and
delightful and charming and intelligent and warm and wonderful Lisa was, and I agreed and
kept agreeing, but he seemed to be on a roll. He assured me that Lisa would never have to
want for aught. But since she didn’t now, I only managed a few polite sounds. He said he
realized that he didn’t need to ask my permission to marry my mother, but that it meant a lot
to both of them if I would give my blessing.
He seemed perfectly sincere. I figured that he might be a throwback, but he certainly
did have nice old-fashioned manners.
“If this is what Lisa wants,” I said by way of blessing.
He nodded. We had more drinks and finished our dinner. See, that wasn’t so bad, I
reassured myself, as Bill appropriated the bill.
But I was kidding myself if I thought the male bonding was over for the night. Bill
offered port and a Cuban cigar by the fire pit out on the patio.
I accepted the port and declined the cigar.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting. You have a heart condition, I understand.”
“Very mild.”
He nodded politely – Lisa had likely convinced him I would never see forty.
Thanks to a freak bout with rheumatic fever when I was sixteen, the valves of my heart
were damaged. As long as I didn’t do anything too stupid, it wasn’t usually a problem,
although maybe it gave me a different perspective from most guys my age. Getting involved
in a couple of murder investigations had reinforced my conviction that life was short and
happiness pretty damn fragile.
Bill and I drank in silence that was not exactly companionable, but not unfriendly. The
scent of cigar mingled with the fire and the hint of sage from the surrounding hills.
Dauten tapped cigar ashes over the railing, said gruffly, with the air of a bull who
knows damn well it’s in a china shop, “I know that you live a…uh…an alternative lifestyle,
Adrien. I don’t want you to feel that any of us would judge…would feel… We want you to
be comfortable, and of course, any friend of yours would naturally be welcome in our home
at any time.”
I went cold. Had Lisa told him about Jake? Had she named names? Was there any
likelihood that Dauten would bump into Jake in the normal course of either of their jobs?
“Thank you,” I got out.
“You’re one of the family now.”
Talk about cults. “I…yes.”
He held his brandy snifter out, we clinked glasses ever so carefully.
* * * * *
Velvet departed for an early break on Tuesday, Lord of the Rings lunchbox in hand –
what is it with girls and that elf, by the way?
Not long after she’d left, two young females sauntered in. Although there is really no
typical bookstore customer, this pair looked like they would be more at home in a mall in
Hades.
One was tall and blonde. She looked familiar. In fact, she looked a lot like one of my
new sisters tricked out for Halloween – though I assumed she would have mentioned if we
were destined to share ceremonial turkey in the near future. She wore leather jeans and a
black lace T-shirt, through which I saw her scarlet bra. A silver pentagram gleamed on a
chain around her neck (so much for secret signs). The feathery tips of her hair were tinted
black. Her lipstick, eye makeup, and fingernails were all painted a macabre and sooty shade
more suited to a charnel house than a house of fashion.
Her mohawked companion was small, buff. She was dressed in a floor-length black
