Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

go freelance. Move into a really small, really cheap efficiency, sell
the car (not that he could drive legally anymore anyway),
and give all the clothes he didn't absolutely need, plus any
other clutter to Goodwill. The white slacks and pineapple
shirt were all he had clean at the last moment.
    And ten grand in an Express Mail package is one hell of a serious job inquiry.

    He'd done a quick Nexus-Lexus search on Vivica Hildreth and found nothing of consequence. Plenty on her
husband though, the recently deceased Reginald Parker
Hildreth-mostly links to adult DVD distributors, but the
wife was the goose-egg, which would've made him suspect
were it not for ...
    Ten fucking GRAND in an Express Mail package, he reminded himself. Cash, too, not even a bank check. A very
loud hello.
    Tampa Bay past the Pier shined like lime-green ice in the
blaze of sun. The sunshine and the fresh, salty sea-scent off
the water reminded him why he'd moved to Florida. Several stunningly attractive women in provocative bikini tops
and sheer sarongs provided another reminder. Westmore
hadn't cut his hair since he'd left the paper; now it was a
shoulder-length dark mane, and when he stepped across 2nd
Avenue, a breeze stirred round his head and blew it all back
in his face in a tangle. When he reached for his comb, he
frowned, realizing he'd forgotten it. Yeah, I'm gonna make a
great impression, all right.
    Before him, downtown St. Petersburg stood clean and
uncrowded. It was a small and diverse metropolis but with a
big city feel somehow. The restaurant block reminded him
of slices of other cities all amalgamated into one: a little bit
of Bourbon Street dropped into Rodeo Drive peppered
with specks of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Westmore liked
it-classy but unpretentious eateries, sophisticated but genuine people, and upscale bars. But when he walked past one
of those same bars, his heart twinged. Yes, Westmore liked
this area but he didn't come here anymore. He couldn't
trust himself.
    The glowing neon light in the front window of the mar tini bar could've spelled his name. That sadness, that loss of
part of himself-however bad-never went away.

    He crossed the next block, exiting the sun into a wall of
cool shadow thrown by downtown's tallest buildings. Next
thing he knew he was standing in front of his favorite oyster bar, watching the skilled shucker effortlessly peel the
tops off bivalves larger than his hand. Westmore ate here a
lot when he was on the paper. He also did something else
here a lot, and he remembered that with a jaded fondness
now as he stared through the window and saw rows and
rows of top-shelf liquor.
    He turned away.
    The street's shadow covered him. He'd seen the Strauss
Building countless times in the past: sleek, narrow, forty stories high. It looked like a massive rectangle of perfectly
smooth, perfectly black volcanic glass-for the darkly tinted
windows that formed its skin. He'd seen it a lot, yes, but
never knew that it was a residential condo tower; he'd always thought it was an office building. Maybe Vivica Hildreth
has an office, it occurred to him, or maybe she was using her
late-husband's business office for the interview But then he
remembered the rest of her letter, inviting him to her
"home."
    This is some home, he thought when he entered the posh
lobby. A security guard signed him in, even scrutinizing him
with a metal-detection wand. Rich people were often paranoid. As he approached the elevator, he spied the parking
garage through a door's chicken-wire window, noticing a
Rolls, several Porsches, a Ferrari, and a multitude of Mercedes. Just as the elevator opened, a woman stepped out and
said, "Mr. Westmore, I'm sorry I'm late."
    He was taken by surprise. The short, well-built woman with the reserved smile couldn't have appeared more prim in
a black-leather half-shirt over a sheer gray turtleneck, black
skirt, high heels-a high-class sort of sexy office-manager