Death Claims by Joseph Hansen Read Free Book Online Page A

lives. Expensive ones. And I cut hell out of my hand. But the tank is fixed and I'm fixed. And there's beaucoup sand in the shower." 
    "Well, don't cook," Dave said. "I'm seventy-five miles away and I've still got a man to see here. Will you drive up? El Molino. There must be a good restaurant. I'll phone Madge. She'll know." 
    "Ask her to join you," Doug said. "She's closer. It's a hell of a drive from here, Dave, and it's the worst time of day for traffic." He didn't mind traffic.' He lived to drive that red Ferrari of his and he drove it the way Szeryng played the violin. "And I'm tired, and my hand hurts." 
    "I'm sorry," Dave said. "Did you see a doctor?" 
    "Yes. It's elegantly stitched. It still hurts. I'll see you when you get here. All right?" 
    "Tomorrow," Dave said. "I'll phone you in the morning." He hung up. He hadn't known he was going to say that. Or had he? He felt hollow. Since last November, when they'd met at the sudden end of a policy-holder's heartbeats in a sand-flea beachtown roominghouse, they hadn't slept apart. This would be the first night. Did he feel bad about that? If so, why? He waited a few seconds for an answer. It didn't come. But the hollowness didn't go. It began to hurt. 
    He fed the phone a dime and dialed Madge. 
    The place was called The Hound and Hawk. Thatch roof, white plaster, half-timbering outside, fumed-oak rafters and paneling inside. Leaded windows. Flamelight from logs in a huge fireplace glinted on the silver, crystal, white linen of stillvacant tables, and reflected ruddy in the polished broad-board floor he crossed to a short set of warped oak steps that climbed to a door marked TAPROOM. Torchlight, hanging rows of pewter mugs, taps bunged into oaken cask ends, a barmaid out of Holbein, frill-capped, buxom, rosy-cheeked. From somewhere a trickle of Morris Dance music, lute, hautboy, tabor. He hoped Madge would hurry. He had a low tolerance for sham. 
    He ordered Glenlivet with water on the side and put it away fast, dodging thoughts of Doug. And a second. And was working on a third when she stood beside him, tugging off driving gloves, unpegging her duffel coat, shaking back her wind-blown hair, boy-cropped, gray. He caught the tang of sea air when she hiked her long, fine bones onto the stool next to his. She gave him her good smile. It had been good for him for twenty-odd years. Dependable, real. He wished it was all he needed. He gave the smile back bleakly. 
    She pushed the gloves into a pocket, told the girl, "Margarita, thanks," and laid a lean, freckled hand on Dave's. "You look tired." 
    "Repeated encounters with nice, normal, everyday people who kill each other for money," he said, "can wear a man down after a couple of decades." 
    She winced for him. "Again? Who, this time?" 
    "A loving son, a not-so-loving wife, a pretty young mistress, a business partnern — he dug out cigarettes, lit one for her, one for himself — "or none of the above." His fingers turned the stubby glass in its circle of wet on the bar top. Blinking through smoke, he watched them. "If I knew, I'd leave word with the management here that they've got the wrong Elizabeth and go home." 
    "Home?" She cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you asked on the phone to stay over with me. You'd driven all over Southern California today and you were whipped." 
    The ashtray was thick pewter stamped with a coat of arms. Hound and hooded hawk. He tapped his cigarette on it. 
    She said, "I suppose you're aware that's never happened before." 
    He shrugged. "I'm not as young as I once was." 
    "It's not that. You'd have driven from Tierra del Fuego to get back to Rod at night. And it's not your work you're tired of, either. If you'll permit me an educated guess, it's Doug. Am I wrong?" 
    He drank and gave the flame-shadowed room a long, skeptical look. "I know you've never led me astray, but can the food here really be eaten?" 
    "Trust me." Her drink came, creamy, the rim of the stem glass frosty with