Moon Music. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
His voice was surprisingly high. “You be a cop?”
Poe nodded.
“Lemme see some ID.”
“Put away your piece. Then I’ll show you ID.”
“Why would I be doing that?”
“Because I reach into my pocket, you shoot, saying it was self-defense. C’mon, sport. I’m obviously not from Narc.”
“Whatchu want?”
“Information about a girl.”
“How much you be payin’ for it?”
“Depends on what you tell me.”
Slowly, the dealer lowered his pistol. “Talk.”
“I got a picture in my pocket,” Poe said. “I’m gonna show it to you.” He brought out Brittany’s photo. “She ever work for you?”
The dealer looked at the photograph. His face soured. “That be Brittany.”
Poe rocked on his feet, restraining himself from snapping his fingers. “Yes. She was one of yours, then?”
The dealer smiled a mouth of ivories. “She didn’t be no runner, but she be my bitch for a month. A good ho. Do anything I tole her to do. Got lots of money from her legs. But I see her again, I cut a smile in her throat. The bitch stole from me.”
“Ah,” Poe said. “So she hasn’t been around lately.”
The dealer shook his head. “She come in here again, she don’t leave breathin’. No patience for that kinda shit. You see the bitch and she axes for me, you tell her what I said.”
Poe said, “She isn’t going to be asking for anyone. She’s dead.”
The dealer didn’t blink. “Don’t surprise me. You be stealin’ from people, they got a right to take action.”
Did you take action, buddy?
Poe held out the fifty. The dealer snapped it into his fingertips. Then he pointed to the teenager with the cracked lips and bruised eye. “I let you poke her for only twenty bucks. But you be wanting some crack … that be standard price.”
The thought of sex with that child made Poe’s stomach turn. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Without a further word, the dealer disappeared.
Poe’s eyes hunted around. It took him a moment to find the waifish pink-haired girl. She was hiding behind a pile of broken concrete. A flick of fire from a match illuminated her ravaged face. She brought the match into the wire-mesh bowl of her crack pipe. Sucked on the bit and inhaled deeply. Throwing back her head. Then it dropped forward, her chin plowing into her chest. Slowly, she found the strength to bring her head up as it lolled from side to side. She wiped her nose, her eyes gazing out to nowhere. Viewing a world out of focus.
From dealer to buyer, from buyer to dealer. Nicking off bits of crack to stave off the dragon. Her life disintegrating into the netherworld.
Hell had nothing over Naked City.
As the hour approached midnight, the urge got stronger. Not as strong as last night, but Alison knew she was powerless. It was better to prepare for it than to be caught off-guard. Last night had been bad because the urge had caught her off-guard. And she had tried to resist.
Never resist.
Never, ever resist.
Had her mother resisted? Is that what had driven her over that edge?
Or maybe the urges had driven her to take off on those long disappearances—the fugue states which were anything but musical. Had she felt the urge as strongly as Alison? Had the urge compelled her to run, to leave her earthly body and ascend to a higher place?
Well, if that had been the case—and often Alison had figured that so—well, then Alison did have pity on her mother. But Alison could afford pity, because she was a lot stronger.
To wit: her body. Just look at her body.
Because the sensations had started.
Once they started, she knew she had very little time left.
The boys had been asleep for over two hours. Steve was away. The opportunity was perfect.
No excuse for not listening to the urge.
Breathing hard as she felt her forearms and biceps widening … hardening. Her thighs and calves … a metamorphosis into something steely and superhuman.
At these moments, she knew she defied logic.
That or she was just plain crazy.
She really didn’t know anymore. Nor did she care.
The urge.
Her body demanding compliance.
Throwing off her nightgown … standing naked and strong.
She dashed out the back door into the cold, clear, windless night, beating her bare breast. Her skin had turned icy, was studded with goose bumps. Her face had become something strange and foreign.
Running into the garage, lifting up the heavy trunk and twirling it about. Singing songs to God and the moon. Such wonderful newfound power.
She set the case down onto the floor, then began to root through it. Steve’s old clothes. Never did get around to taking them to the Cancer Society. Tossing and throwing the vestments into the air, the cloth billowing down like sails in the wind.
So what would it be tonight?
Which shirt?
Which pair of pants?
Which pair of shoes? (That was easy. Steve’s shoes still didn’t fit her feet.) She’d have to settle for her own shoes.
Dressing quickly.
She observed her visage in a cracked mirror.
Veddy, veddy good. Urbane and suave.
The height of sophistication.
Now all she needed was a hat.
The compulsion to play was overwhelming. But Poe was known at the Needle, so he had to settle for a beer and a smoke at the bar.
Something to unwind.
His head hurt, he was tired, and he was dog-lonely. A quickie wasn’t going to cut it. He needed companionship, needed to hear the music of feminine speech. He cursed himself for not making arrangements to meet Rukmani, but took solace in being noble. She needed her sleep.
Sipping suds, glancing at the pit, feeling very antsy. He rocked on the barstool, tapped his toes without rhythm along the foot railing. Scanning the crowds, he blinked, picked up his beer, and moved a dozen seats down.
Y glanced up, returned his eyes to his poker machine. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, a long tip of ashes just waiting to be flicked into a tray. Poe removed the smoke from the old man’s mouth, dumped the discharge in a glass bowl, then placed it back between Y’s lips.
The old man’s brown face was creased with concentration. As usual, he wore a sand-colored leather shirt, a string tie with a turquoise pendant, and jeans. On his feet were Nike running shoes. His black hair was pulled back into a braid. With a touch of his hand, he discarded the eight of hearts. The machine replaced it with a two of diamonds. Again he crapped out.
Poe said, “Why’d you go for the three of a kind instead of the straight?”
“Odds are better.”