Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

The stifling heat had finally broken, and from the bar’s window, I could see a storm was descending on New York City. I winced, shook the water from my hat, dropped it on the table, and slipped into the snug. I looked at my bloodied hands. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, not that way, but knowing something doesn’t always help. Anyway, the old couple had to die. Period. I looked around, it was the usual, sad, 3 a.m. Friday fraternity. I could have a stake through my heart and no one would notice.“Hey, Joe!” I shouted, “Daniels with a twist of lemon.”  I reserved bourbon for the bad jobs. When the glass of rye arrived, I dripped its contents on my left hand then yanked a four-inch barbed spine from the flesh of my palm.”Fuckitty, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, throwing the spine on the fire where it crackled and spat. I pressed my hand down on a beer towel to stem the blood.”Hey, TT, you better pay for that!”“I am good for it Joe.““I thought you were into ghosts and paranormal shit?” said Joe, looking at my swollen hands. “That looks pretty nasty. You been fishing?”“Yeah, sort of. Give me another whiskey.” I grimaced, took the glass from Joe, and downed it. The eel juice spread across the back of my throat and fizzed. I saw Joe looking at me. Was this the right time to mention my work as a Private Spectral Detective?  How my job lead to real-world humans, and the mutilated old couple, folded and stuffed into the boot of my Jag that I had to get rid of before sunrise? Probably not.“Mr. Tarakan?” I looked up.  Only Cops and the IRS called me by my surname. “Mr. Tarakan, I was told I might find you here, especially at this time.” If angels were leggy ash blondes who wore leather and spoke with plumy English accents, I was in heaven. I wrapped the beer towel around my hand and offered her the seat next to me. She sauntered over, flashing a dark stocking welt through the high slit in her skirt. Large soulful, wet eyes looked me over.  I lived by two golden rules: first, never get involved with a client, and second, rules are there to be broken.  She definitely came under the latter.“You look as though you need some help,” she said, squeezing into the snug next to me, and taking my hand. “Let me dress this for you.” She took the bar towel and gently tied it around my hand. “Keep pressure on the wound until it stops bleeding.” I obeyed without question.Her ample chest heaved as she took a deep breath. “We need to talk…” Her eyelids fluttered, and a pained expression flashed across her alabaster skin. “It’s, it’s my husband.”  It always was.  “He’s come back to haunt me.”  She paused and drew a black lace handkerchief from her pocket.  “I need you to stop him…Give him peace.”  Her baby blues flooded, and I dived headlong in.  Dabbing gently, and careful not to disturb the rich, black mascara, she fluttered her long eyelashes at me.  My blood rushed south.“Care for a drink?” I asked.  They always liked to drink Escort Gölbaşı and tell.“Thanks.  Bacardi and Coke, large.”  I smiled. She was class – a walking billboard for 50s retro haute couture – sophisticated, and from the money side of town.  I gave Joe the order. Two drunk barflies started glaring at the angel next to me, so we moved to a corner of the bar. She slid gracefully from the snug and I stole another look at paradise. She spoke about her husband, but I wasn’t listening.  Clients were usually tediously boring religious nuts, or middle-aged losers living beyond their means. This client, however, was a mid-twenties bombshell with high cheekbones, and legs that finished somewhere north of Jersey.  She paused for a second, and I took control.“Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”  She didn’t flinch.  “Cash, upfront.” A smile broke across her face.“Mr. Tarakan, you come highly recommended.”  She oozed insincerity. “Let’s speak again in a week.”   Draining her glass she produced an envelope from within her coat. “Five thousand dollars cash, as a down payment, and this is my husband’s resume, and the last five sightings of him.” There was nothing paranormal about this, but I was still opening the envelope before she’d got up. Liberating her leather coat, she spun on a stiletto, and glided from the bar. French heels with thin black seams on flesh coloured nylons – Paranormal or not, I was hooked.The sun was crawling across the sky when I got to my apartment. The storm had abated, and everything was covered in a fine mist.  I poured a tonic and sat down with the envelope. I needed to think. I felt for reassurance and found it in my pocket. I smiled as I took out the silver snuffbox – a gift from an appreciative client – its contents helped me focus. I popped the lid. One hundred grams of these tiny creatures contained seven milligrams of iron. Compared to beefsteak these were dynamite.To the reassuring crack of a husk, I settled down with my Pastel Babies, and opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of black and white photographs of an old man somewhere between ninety and death. A further handful of photographs showed him with a fat man in a garden.  Hidden among the pictures were a postcard of a strange painting, and four film rental stubs.  I looked again at the photographs – I had a nagging feeling I knew the fat man. Tiredness overcame me, and I slept, dreaming of my angel.The next morning I followed up on the fat man – he looked like a gumshoe from the Eastside found plugged with lead in his apartment some weeks ago. I called Lieutenant Stalker, my ex-partner. We exchanged pleasantries and I popped the question. “I need information about the gumshoe from the Eastside.” Stalker went quiet.“Which one?”“How many have you got?”“How many do you want?”“The fat one.”“Ate too much.”“Natural death then?”“Nope. “ It was like pulling teeth. Stalker was clamming, Keçiören escort and I knew why.“Feds interested?”“Yep.“O’ Malley’s, at three.”“No problem.” The Feds only got interested for a reason. My hunch was the fat man had found something, and my angel’s husband was important.The heat was rising as I walked into O’Malley’s on fifty-third. Stalker had his back to the exit sitting crouched at table thirty-three. A man of annoying ritual, he had sat at table thirty-three for the five years I had partnered him. I sat opposite and he nodded, nervously checking out the three mid-afternoon diners. The waitress threw menus on the table and waited, chewing her gum like a cow ruminates cud.“Black coffee, eggs easy over, hash browns and two blueberry waffles?” I looked at Stalker, waiting on his reply.“You remembered!” Each day for five years he had eaten O’Malley’s artery choking shit. It wasn’t rocket science to assume, looking at the overweight lard, that nothing had changed.“Why the nervousness?” I looked at the sweaty, fidgeting mess opposite me.“The Feds are all over the fat man case.”“Why you so bothered?” His scanning of the room was beginning to irritate.“He was working on a case for a New York Congressman. The Congressman disappeared, and we may have… Well, killed him.”I felt for reassurance. I popped the lid and sat back. “So, New York’s finest killed a Congressman!” Stalker saw me smirk, and frowned.“He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.” He looked up, his mouth awash with shit, “It’s complicated.” I raised an eyebrow. “Know anything about his wife?” I enquired.“Why you ask?” Stalker went defensive. I pushed a reassuring clip of George Washington’s across the table.“Can’t find her. They divorced months ago, she lives elsewhere.” My angel never mentioned a divorce. “There’s more if you get me her details.” I looked at Stalker, who nodded, forcing another mouthful down with a swig of coffee. And what do they say comes from the mouths of babes and fools?On the way to the office my cell rang, the blonde’s silky voice washed over me. “Mr. Tarakan, we should meet. Metropolitan Museum at three?” I looked at the pile of final demands on my desk, “No problem.”I arrived at the museum early. The unusually wet summer weather had gone, leaving New York City hot, the kind of stifling heat that wraps itself around your throat and slowly chokes you.I sat some distance from the entrance with a broadsheet and waited. At three precisely, the doors opened and in strolled my Vargas Girl, wearing the shortest of flared skirts, and moving with the fluidity of unfurling silk. Deep within my chest, the slow rhythmic tapping of her high spiky heels reverberated, rippling to my crotch. I stood up admiring the gentle, tapering curve of her thighs. She turned and undulated toward me. “Mr. Tarakan, good to see you,” oozing insincerity again, she offered a leather glove. Kızılay escort bayan As I took it, her musky perfume flooded over me – I was putty in her hands.“Shall we walk?” I nodded. She eased off her gloves and paused. Standing close, she unbuttoned her jacket. She looked into my eyes, “I do so like the Met. It was my husband’s favourite too.” The raw silk slid provocatively from her shoulders, revealing a translucent chemise. “It is so damned hot!” She sighed as her upper body rippled, and inches from my face, her fleshy breasts undulated in agreement. Like the plastic dog that sits on the back shelf of a car, I bounced along with them.“This is my favourite gallery.” Feigning interest, I pulled my eyes from her chest and looked around. Seventeenth-century tit and ass covered the walls. I was about to make a witty comment when she moved to the far wall, and stood with her back to me looking at a painting. I walked slowly, admiring the voluptuous hourglass. The last time we met my angel wore leather. Today, it was raw silk, light pink, and creamy. Similar French heels, but now the pencil lines were dark gray on white.“My husband was impotent Mr. Tarakan, for all the tea in China, he could not raise a smile.” I casually moved the paper downward – I was starting to grin. She caught my eyes on her cleavage and gave a knowing cough.“Mr. Tarakan, what about my husband?” “The man in the photographs with your husband, he died a week ago. Murdered.” She was un-phased by my comment.“My husband was a voyeur, Mr. Tarakan, this may help.” She produced from her Gucci clutch bag a DVD. “He liked his DVD’s. You have another week Mr. Tarakan.” I watched her leave. It didn’t need a scientist and a brace of dogs to explain the effect she had on me. She was ringing my bell big time.The DVD looked promising.  I kicked off my loafers, unhooked my Glock, laid it on the table, and turned on the DVD.  The same man in the photographs was walking in an ornamental garden.  He moved behind a hedge and the camera followed.  In the distance, a woman walked toward the camera.  It was the ash blonde.  Then the screen jumped and we were back to the old man in the garden.  I reversed the DVD and slowed it where it jumped. There was something odd about the segue – I called my Geek.Every P.I. in the twenty-first century employed a techno Geek.  Mine wasn’t a spotty college whiz kid you threw a few bucks at to perform miracles. No, mine was a fort-five-year-old Russian called Dmitri Premagenev, or ‘Prema’ for short. A bald, bear of a man—a bit-part actor, a gypsy troubadour. Part insane, part genius. He had worked at a Space Facility in Kazakhstan, then for the KGB hacking into US industrial companies, before being retired to a gulag for ‘behavior incompatible with a Soviet Citizen.’He had learned his English in Russia, watching smuggled John Wayne movies. Capitalism had taken its toll; he spoke like John Wayne, with a heavy Russian accent, and modeled his life on the ‘Duke’. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, he fled to America. Prema was his usual obtund self. I agreed to leave the package with him. He wanted time to work on it, and I needed sleep.Two days later, my cell rang. It was 4 am, and Prima was on the line. 

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32