The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
Chapter Nineteen
The alarm went off on Tuesday morning, and I slapped it off the nightstand. Every
bone in my body ached. My head throbbed. And that was the good news. I could as easily
have wound up pain-free in the morgue. What had I been thinking for the past two weeks? I
was not up to this shit. I imagined what Jake –
No.
I didn’t want to start thinking about what Jake would or wouldn’t say. Thinking about
Jake was not useful. In fact, thinking about Jake was liable to lead to pulling the covers over
my head and canceling the day due to lack of interest.
This was one time when I was not going to examine and analyze and rationalize and
agonize. He was right. I knew the score. He’d never pretended it was other than it was –
whatever the hell that was. I had never kidded myself there was really a chance for us. Well,
not often anyway.
I guess my mistake had been in believing that he was too smart and too honest not to
eventually realize…
Not his feelings for me – because I didn’t think what he felt for me was that
significant – but his own true nature. How could he deny who he was? How could he
choose to live such a profound and cancerous deception?
I didn’t begin to understand. It was better not to try.
Throwing aside the blankets, I sat up. Every muscle screeched protest. There were
bruises on my hips, legs, ribs. My knee was definitely wrenched. My wrist felt sprained.
This verged on self-destructive.
I showered and dressed and hobbled downstairs.
* * * * *
It was a quiet day. Business was brisk, but unexceptional. When lunchtime came, I
decided I had better things to do than sit at the computer feeding more horror stories into
my brain. I grabbed a falafel at King Tut’s on West Colorado and limped around Old Town in
a kind of blank abstraction, threading my way down sidewalks crowded with holiday
shoppers and street performers and tourists.
I reminded myself that while Angus might not be a murderer, he wasn’t exactly an
innocent bystander either. I remembered our fleeting phone conversation before I had
headed over to his house and the discovery of Kinsey Perone’s mutilated body. That
revealing I didn’t have anything to do with it.
Maybe he hadn’t participated in what happened to Tony Zellig or Karen Holtzer, but
he also hadn’t done anything about it.
Yes, I understood that he had been frightened, but there was a difference between
ignoring someone wrongfully parked in the handicapped zone and ignoring murder.
Velvet was on the phone when I walked in after two. Immediately, she replaced the
receiver.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Er – my mother.”
She turned away. I felt an unfamiliar surge of anger. “Then why did you hang up? Why
is it you hang up every time I walk in on you making a phone call?”
She stared at me owlishly. “I thought you might not like it.”
“You’re right. The next time I catch you making a personal phone call during work
hours, you’re fired.”
She gaped at me.
“Just kidding,” I said. I walked back into my office, sat down at the desk, and put my
face in my hands.
* * * * *
I was tempted to cancel the Tuesday night writing group. But then I’d been tempted to
not get out of bed that morning. I knew the drill. I’d been through it before. All I had to do
was keep to the routine, stay busy, not stop to think – not drink too much – and before I
knew it, it would be in the past. A dull, distant ache that would be easy to put aside and
ignore.
It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than Mel, and I’d managed to get past that. Mel and I
had been together for five years. Jake and I hadn’t lasted one. This shouldn’t take long at all,
if I put my mind to it.
So when the Partners in Crime started arriving, I was ready for them. The coffee was
made, pastries set out, the chairs circled, pencils sharpened. I was able to meet Chan’s
awkward gaze like nothing was wrong.
Thank God, being heterosexual, he wasn’t going to sympathize or ask how I was doing.
“Man, Adrien,” said Max, arriving late as usual, “is there a jinx on this place or what?
First, your old pal Robert gets bumped off, then Angus turns out to be a serial killer.”
“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I said.
They all gave me different versions of the same all-knowing sympathy.
“You’re such a nice person, Adrien,” Grania said, patting my shoulder and reaching past
me for the last cheese croissant.
What was the point of arguing? For all I knew, they were right.
We went through the stories, one by one, starting with Max’s new chapter. Against my
best intentions, I found myself considering whether it might be possible to find this Peter
Verlane without Guy’s help. Would it hurt to ask a question or two?
Maybe Guy was right, maybe Verlane was floating on the fringe. Or maybe Guy was
wrong. Or maybe, as little as I liked the idea, Guy was involved.
I needn’t pursue what I discovered, but I couldn’t deny that I still wanted answers.
Now that I had a name, I could try to track this latest lead through the university. For that
matter, I could try Information. I wondered if I was spelling Verlane correctly. Maybe it was
supposed to be like the poet Paul Verlaine.
Jean’s soft voice penetrated my consciousness.
“Avery walked across the lobby of the Biltmore hotel…”
“What is Avery doing at the Biltmore Hotel?” I interrupted.
“He’s following the guy who he thinks killed the mime,” Grania said, through a
mouthful of cheese croissant.
“He ought to leave that to the police,” Chan muttered, adding another red mark to a
page that already looked like he had bled onto it.
“No. Why is he at the Biltmore?”
Jean met my gaze. Bit her lip. Her cheeks were scarlet.
“Sheesh, Adrien, relax,” said Ted, looking from me to his wife. “Why not the Biltmore?
It’s a great location.”
“I can change it,” faltered Jean.
“Yeah, I think you should.”
Grania and Max exchanged a look which suggested I needed to take a pill. Or two. Or
maybe the entire bottle.
I bit off the rest of it and sat back. Jean returned to reading. Her voice was slightly
