And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) by Warren Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

called out, “there’s someone here I want you to meet.”
    The blond woman turned around to face them fully. She had a face of unreal innocent beauty. Her eyes were sky-blue, her cheekbones pronounced, but soft instead of angular. She was enough woman to fill the dreams of ten generations of farm boys, Trace thought.
    “Trace, this is National Anthem.”
    “What?” he said.
    “National Anthem.”
    “Give me five seconds and I’ll be able to salute.”
    “Slob,” Felicia said. “We call her Nash for short. Nash, this is my friend, Trace, who thinks you’re absolutely spectacular.”
    He knew it. It was too good to be true. He could see it in the blonde’s eyes. There was a hesitation, as if she were trying to figure out what the countess had said, whether it was good or bad, and what she should do about it.
    She finally decided it was good and smiled radiantly, jiggled a little up and down, setting her breasts into alarming motion, and squealed.
    “Eeeeeyou,” the sound came out. It was accomplished somehow by inhaling on the “eeee” and quickly expelling the “you” sound at a higher pitch. “Pleased to meetcha, I’m sure.”
    So much for passion, Trace thought. It was no-man’s-land between the girl’s ears. Not a brain in her head. And a New York Forty-second Street accent.
    She stuck out her hand for Trace to shake and he had the fleeting desire to pump her hand up and down hard to see how her breasts would react, but he restrained himself and shook hands gently. She squeezed him hard and fingered his palm with her index finger.
    “Eeeeyou,” she squealed again.
    “Trace is into insurance,” Felicia said. “Nash here is into films. And donkeys.”
    “I’m gonna be a star,” Nash said. “That’s what they tell me anyway. No more loops.” She was still holding Trace’s hand, still tickling his palm. Maybe she would keep doing it until he told her to stop, Trace thought.
    Felicia explained to Trace patiently, with a hint of a smile in the corners of her lovely mouth, “Nash has just finished her first feature film. She takes on nine men and a donkey.”
    “Let me tell ya, the donkey was the nicest one of the bunch,” National Anthem said with a giggle, happy and secure because she was obviously repeating a phrase she had used many times before to good response. And she squealed again, “Eeeeyou.”
    Felicia would show no mercy. “It’s called Asses Up , starring National Anthem.”
    “It’s going to be bigger than Deep Throat ” National Anthem assured Trace. She was still tickling his palm. “It’ll gross millions, won’t it, William?”
    And for the first time since meeting this astonishing creation, Trace noticed, really noticed, that there was a man standing behind her. Like Trace, he wore a jacket and tie, but unlike Trace, he was short and mousy-looking with thinning hair, average color skin, average features. He wore eyeglasses that seemed too large for such a small face.
    “This is William Parmenter,” Felicia told Trace. “Everybody calls him Willie.”
    “I keep forgetting,” National Anthem said. “I keep calling him William.”
    Trace shook the man’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm handshake from a mouse.
    “William, ooops, Willie says my picture will gross millions, isn’t that right, Willia…Willie?”
    Parmenter seemed embarrassed to be discussing it. “I’m no expert,” he said.
    “Willie’s an expert on everything else,” Felicia said. “He works for Paolo over there.”
    “What do you do, Parmenter?” Trace asked
    “Whatever Mr. Ferrara wants me to do,” the man said. He was an American, Trace noticed, with the broad vowel sounds of the Midwest in his voice.
    “Willie’s like an accountant and a valet and an assistant and a gofer,” Felicia said. “But he’s nice.” She put her arm around the short man’s head and squeezed him, pulling him toward her bosom. His face reddened with embarrassment. National Anthem finally stopped