The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
* * * * *
The next day, Friday, I had to prepare for a book signing with bestselling author
Gabriel Savant. Savant wrote the Sam Haynes occult detective series, sort of an update on the
old Jules de Grandin and John Thunstone pulps. I’m not a big fan of horror, but I had
skimmed Savant’s latest in an effort to facilitate discussion should the question-and-answer
session peter out too fast. Not that I expected a problem. After an initially lackluster career in
the ’80s, Savant had reinvented himself and his work and was now a media darling. Hustling
around in anticipation of a significant turnout that evening, I wished ungenerously that I had
delayed rescuing Angus till after the weekend.
I was arranging the front display of Savant’s latest, The Rosicrucian Codex, wondering
if I had enough bottles of four-dollar champagne, when I received another call from the dark
side.
“Speaking of pricks,” I interrupted, “You’re wasting your time. Angus doesn’t work
here anymore.”
“Wh –?” He – the voice was male – caught himself. There was a pause, then a click as
the receiver slammed down.
I tried *69, but the number was blocked. Not a surprise, I guess. I knew, of course, that
it wouldn’t end there.
Sure enough, later that afternoon I got another caller requesting “Gus.” This time the
voice was feminine, dulcet-toned. In all the time Angus has worked for me, I’ve only known
one female to call him, and that was his girl friend, Wanda. Wanda is not dulcet-toned. She
sounds like she was weaned on unfiltered Marlboros.
“Sorry,” I said in answer to the query. “He’s not here.”
“Oh, gosh,” she fretted. “I’ve got to talk to Gus. It’s, like, an emergency.”
“Like an emergency, but not?”
“What?”
“Forget it.” I said, “Look, he’s gone. For real. Spread the word.”
A pause. Then she faltered, “I’m not sure…?”
I decided to try a different approach. “Can I get your name? Maybe he’ll phone me
once he gets settled. You’re a friend of Angus’s?”
She laughed a tinkling laugh, a party-girl laugh. “Well, ye-aah! Of course! And I’ve got
to talk to him. He wants to talk to me, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” I said with equal sincerity. “But he’s gone. Skipped. I’d like to help,
but…hey, why don’t you leave your name and number, and if he gets in touch with me, I’ll
let him know you called.”
Another hesitation. Then she said coolly, “Sure. Tell him Sarah Good called. He knows
the number.”
666?
She replaced the phone gently. I followed suit. I caught a glimpse of my rueful
expression in the mirror across from the counter. Sarah Good. One of the first of the Salem
witches to be hanged. Cute.
Well, on the bright side, at least the kids were getting some history at school.
* * * * *
By six-thirty, it was standing room only in the store. I realized I had seriously
miscalculated both the champagne and how much help I would need. I’d never seen so many
teenagers in black lipstick – boys and girls – or chainmail jewelry on middle-aged men who
didn’t ride Harleys.
Not that it wasn’t great to see people reading. Especially people who looked as though a
book would be their last choice of entertainment. I just hoped the evening wouldn’t end
with broken furniture or the building struck by a lightning bolt.
Running next door, I bribed the girls closing the travel agency to lend a hand with the
crowd control.
By seven-fifteen, our illustrious author was officially late, and the natives were getting
restless. There was a line of women waiting to use the washroom and a nasty argument about
the origins of the swastika brewing near the “cozy corner.” A local reporter tried to
interview me about my involvement in a murder case the previous year. I resisted the
impulse to finish off the last of the drugstore champagne and hide in the stockroom.
At seven-thirty, there was commotion at the front door. Several people, clearly part of
an entourage, entered the store. Three leggy ladies dressed more like succubae than minions
of a reputable publishing house entered. A plump, bespectacled man drew me aside and
introduced himself as Bob Friedlander, Gabe’s handler.
Handler? Nice work if you could get it, I guess.
I didn’t catch most of what Friedlander said, because the next instant, the Prince of
Sales had appeared. Gabriel Savant stood over six feet tall and was built like a male model –
in fact, he looked like the male half of the illustration on a historical romance: unruly raven
hair falling over his tanned forehead, piercing blue eyes, flashing white smile. Were there
rhinestones in his teeth? Certainly something shone in his right earlobe. He wore leather
jeans and a black cape. Amazingly, nobody laughed.
“But this is charming,” Gabriel assured me, as Friedlander navigated his star in my
direction. “Of course, it’s not Vroman’s, but it’s nice.”
“Ambiance,” Friedlander said quickly. “Wonderful ambiance.”
“We try,” I said.
“Of course you do,” Gabriel encouraged. He glanced at his handler. “Bobby, what is
there to drink? I’m parched.”
Friedlander cleared his throat uneasily. Along with that musky aftershave of Gabe’s
wafted a mix of mouthwash and bourbon. Mostly bourbon.
“There’s brand-X champagne making the rounds,” I said.
You’d have thought I’d offered milk to a vampire. Gabe blanched. Swallowing hard, he
said, “Oh, God, let’s get this over with.” He strode over to the antique desk I had set up.
Enthusiastic applause from the waiting audience echoed off the dark beams.
“This book tour has been grueling,” Friedlander told me by way of apology. “Twenty
cities in thirty days…radio interviews at four in the morning, cable talk shows, book club
luncheons; often we’re doing three bookstores a day. Gabe is exhausted.”
“I bet you both are.”
He laughed. Behind the glasses, his mild eyes were unexpectedly alert. “A little. I
understand you write also.”
“A little.” Not enough, thank God, that anyone wanted to send me out on the road.
“You’re too modest. I’ve read Murder Will Out. Very witty.”
Either this guy did his homework like nobody I’d ever met before, or he was gay. My
books don’t attract many mainstream readers.
