The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
We were sitting on the rock wall, still gabbing, when Guy glanced at his watch, said,
“Good God. It’s five o’clock.”
I couldn’t believe it. It felt like we’d been gone an hour or two. “We should get back.”
He nodded, then smiled faintly. “The sun’s bringing out freckles on your nose.”
“It’s probably sand.”
He reached up to brush a finger along the bridge of my cheek. A gentle touch. “The
sand isn’t rubbing off.” Our eyes met – held.
He was going to kiss me.
I laughed and rubbed my nose, getting to my feet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Guy sitting very still. Then he relaxed and also rose.
We climbed back up the rocks to the highway.
* * * * *
The shop was closed, the upstairs flat very quiet when I got home. Quiet and empty. I
tried to imagine coming home to someone who welcomed me, who looked forward to seeing
me.
I went into the bathroom and wiped my soap message to Jake off the mirror, shaking
my head at my earlier jitters.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a beer, checked the machine for messages.
Nothing.
I headed back downstairs to view my e-mail. Several Internet orders, a couple of e-mail
Christmas cards from friends, the usual spam, and the usual offers of spam blockers.
I opened blackster21’s e-mail.
Nothing.
I decided to post another message to Dark Realm.
Los Angeles novice urgently seeking Blade Sable. Any information welcome.
I combed the web for the demon Gremory. There wasn’t much to be found, although a
site called Lemegeton listed all seventy-two demons from the Ars Goetia and gave their
availability status. Amon, for example, was noted as “currently Bound by Mindspring,” while
Gremory aka Gamori was down as “currently available.”
Bored and strangely restless, I signed off and went upstairs.
The answering machine light was blinking. I hit Play.
Guy, sounding unexpectedly self-conscious, had phoned. I called him back.
For once he answered right away. We chatted briefly. He said very casually, “There’s a
club in Hollywood called Hell’s Kitchen. Supposedly Betty Sansone and her crowd hang
there most Monday nights. Would you like to go?”
I hesitated. Jake generally chose Monday nights to put in an appearance, but I doubted
I’d be seeing him anytime soon – now having attracted the interest of Angus’s defense team
and Jake’s own colleagues. I didn’t want to wait by the phone in hopes that he might show,
but I didn’t want to have to explain what I was up to on the off chance that he did call.
From the moment Angus had been arrested, I had considered any promise – let alone
one given under duress – to stay off Jake’s turf, null and void. If Jake knew anything about
me at all, he had to know I wasn’t going to stand by while the cops railroaded Angus into
prison or a nuthouse because they hadn’t the imagination to look further than their own
noses. That didn’t mean he would be pleased to find out that I was playing detective again.
The situation was dicey enough between us.
“I’m not sure I can get away. Can I let you know?”
“Of course,” he said, disappointed.
I felt a little disappointed myself.
* * * * *
Sunday I was going through a box of books I’d bought on eBay, when Lisa called with a
spur of the moment invitation to go over to the Dautens’ and watch NFL football.
I can just about tolerate college football. Overpaid, steroid-enhanced goons wrecking
each other’s joints for a few feet of turf? Thanks, but no thanks. Not for all the beer and spicy
wings I can hold.
“It’s San Francisco at Cincinnati,” Lisa parroted, like she had any idea what that meant.
Eyes on a copy of The Pale Egyptian by R.M. Friedlander, I replied, “I’m not from San
Francisco. I’m not from Cincinnati. Why would I be interested?”
“Because Bill asked you. He knows you went to school at Stanford. He wants to see
more of you.”
“He’s seen plenty this month alone. I’ve had dinner twice with him. How much
bonding do I need to do with these people?” I flipped open the book to the copyright page.
Copyright 1989 by Robert M. Friedlander.
Velvet, standing a couple feet away, said, “I can manage. It will be dead today.” Which
showed how little she knew. Our customers would not be sitting home chugging beer and
cheering on the gladiators. With two weeks to go to Christmas, they would be out on the
mean streets, plastic in hand.
In my ear, Lisa’s insect voice persisted, “It’s three weeks to the wedding, Adrien. There
remains a lot to do.”
“Well, why would I be doing it?” I protested. “I’m not getting married.”
“Do you not have any interest in this wedding at all?”
Did she want an honest answer?
“Have you read the papers lately? I’m kind of…”
“Kind of what?”
Danger, Will Robinson. I’d nearly strolled right into that crater.
“Nothing. What time?” I wondered if maybe she and the big guy would take one of
those year-long honeymoons like Victorian couples did. Maybe I could get Lauren and
Natalie to work on that plan.
Lisa happily relayed the details. I promised Velvet this would be the last time I’d leave
her on her own.
“No big thing,” she said.
* * * * *
The Dauten homestead was located in the Chatsworth Hills on a residential street that
seemed to have seceded from Santa’s Village.
The house on the left was going for a Dr. Seuss Does Christmas motif. There was a
small-scale Whoville encircled by a miniature train track. The train bore a tipsy-looking Cat
in the Hat along with the Grinch and his pup, Max. Lights flashing, whistle tooting, the
dwarf train whizzed around the miniature Whoville in ceaseless and annoying activity. It
appeared that the homeowners had actually hired an armed security guard to keep the
onlookers at bay. Was hitching a ride on the toy train punishable by death?
The house on the right aimed for a Nutcracker Suite theme. Candy canes lined the
front walk. Fluorescent Sugar Plum Fairies were cunningly placed amidst the bushes and
trees. A two-story Nutcracker Prince guarded the front entrance, while a giant inflated Clara
bobbed gently in the smoggy night, hissing helium in a never-ending fart.
