Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) by Laurence Gough Read Free Book Online Page B

down the drain, Mannie turned off the shower. He pushed back the pebbled glass door, slipped on the Chinese silk robe with the gold dragons crawling all over it. He wiped his face with a towel and then blow-dried his sparse hair. When his hair was dry he used the stream of hot air to clear a patch of condensation from the mirror. No sign of guilt in those pale blue eyes. The smile as friendly and spontaneous as it had ever been. Satisfied with his appearance, he went into the kitchen and pulled a Molson’s Light out of the fridge.
    He drank the beer straight from the can, standing in front of the open refrigerator with his feet spread for balance and his head tilted well back.
    Hilda must have heard him, or noticed the kitchen light come on. She meowed as she came in from the back yard. Mannie took another sip of his beer and then went over to the sink and cracked open a tin of ersatz tuna. He forked the stuff into the cat’s bowl and stood back. Hilda purred as she ate; a trick of the vocal cords Mannie very much admired. He drank his beer and watched his cat eat her dinner. It was ridiculous, but the smell of the viscous pink food had triggered his appetite. He was salivating.
    There was a dark brown loaf of Winnipeg Rye on the counter, fresh that morning. In the fridge Mannie found a wedge of cheddar, mayonnaise, iceberg lettuce, a brick of unsalted butter, sweet pickles drifting in a jar of cloudy liquid. Working fast, Mannie made himself a double-decker four inches thick. He opened his mouth wide and was about to take his first bite when the telephone rang.
    He knew who it was. He’d been expecting and dreading the call. Reflexively, he moved to pick up the telephone.
    But then, because he liked to think he was his own man, he hesitated; took a big bite out of the sandwich, chewed deliberately, rinsed out his mouth with the last of the beer and got a second can out of the fridge.
    Finally, on the ninth ring, he picked the instrument up and said: “Talk to me.”
    “You’re up kind of late tonight, big fella. Got something to celebrate?”
    The voice was deep and abrasive, a slow, southern Californian drawl. Mannie could almost see the waves as they came crashing in on the beach, hear the rocks grinding together in the surf. He pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, and said nothing. He and Felix Newton had a very concise relationship: when Felix spoke, everybody listened. No exceptions, even for wild and crazy guys like Mannie. Either you learned to catch the short side of the monologue, or you kind of faded from view without anybody noticing.
    “You hear me?” said Felix.
    “It’s the weekend, that’s all. Party time.”
    “Somebody there with you?”
    “Just Hilda.”
    “What happens, you buy her a mouse and the three of you dance until dawn?”
    “Hey,” said Mannie. “That’s a good one.”
    “Or maybe the two of you crack open a six-pack and watch a little TV.”
    “Not since Barney Miller retired.”
    “You telling me you missed tonight’s news?”
    “What news is that?”
    “Somebody chopped up a kid and dropped his body in the park.”
    “What park is that?”
    “Stanley Park.”
    “A nice park,” said Mannie. “If I was a body, it’s where I’d like to get dumped.”
    There was a long silence. Finally Felix said, “I’ll try to remember that, Mannie.”
    “Don’t go out of your way, Felix.”
    Felix Newton laughed, making a sound deep in his throat like coal rumbling down a long, dirty black chute. “You’re a fun guy, Mannie. We ought to see a little more of each other, don’t you think?”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Maybe you could give me a few hours of your time later this week?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    “Squeeze me into your busy schedule, somehow?”
    “You in town?”
    “We could have brunch, okay?”
    “Fine.”
    “I’ll send Junior around in his new car, would you like that?”
    “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
    “Dress for white wine, you know what I