Hair-Trigger by Trevor Clark Read Free Book Online Page A

guy?”
    â€œHe’s just a roommate. I put an ad in the paper after this girl who was living here moved out, that’s all.”
    She closed her eyes as she turned her head on the pillow. Lofton drank from his bottle, mulling her situation, when he became aware of something. “What’s that stink?”
    Marva laughed. “I had to fart.”
    He leaned back on his elbow. “You’re kidding. ”
    â€œWell, what would you do? It’s just natural. You can’t hold it in—you’ll hurt yourself. I have to do another one, too.”
    â€œHang your fucking ass off the bed.”
    She laughed as he pushed her hip with his knee, edging her from the mattress, when the telephone rang. They glanced at one another. He checked his watch while Marva leaned over to the nightstand and lifted the receiver. “Hello? Oh . . . hi. It’s kinda late, you know.” Her eyes became glazed. “No. No, I haven’t seen it. . . .”
    Lofton drew on his cigarette and tapped the ashes down the neck of an empty bottle. A poster of Bruce Lee in a martial arts stance was tacked up near the draped sheet. He looked around at the amount of stuff crammed into the small space: a rack of dresses, shoes, hats on hooks. There were various brushes, bottles of perfume, and unfamiliar afro-type cosmetics and hair products on her dresser.
    When she got off the phone she shook her head. “I don’t believe that guy.”
    â€œWho was it?”
    â€œOh, this guy who used to live here, an ex-boyfriend. Can I have some of that?” Marva reached for his beer. Swallowing as she passed it back, she said, “He wanted to know if he left his health card here.”
    â€œAt three in the fucking morning?”
    â€œWell, he knows I work late.”
    â€œWhen did he move out?”
    â€œAbout three months ago.”
    â€œWeird time to phone.”
    Marva yawned. “I never saw a guy with a ring in his nipple before. For a big guy with tattoos, you don’t have very much hair on your body.”
    He looked down at himself.
    â€œMe, I’m hairy,” she said, running her fingers along her forearm. “I don’t know what’s in my background; it’s all mixed up from the West Indies.” She lay back and studied him. “So, what do you do for a job?”
    Lofton took a drag as he considered his words. Exhaling, he said, “Security work, consulting in private investigation —”
    â€œYou’re a private eye?”
    â€œNot now, but I was in L.A.”
    She looked skeptical. “So you mean you were a real private eye, like in Chinatown ?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHow’d you get started in that?”
    â€œI took an eighteen month program that cost six thousand dollars at the best detective academy in the States, and opened my own office.” Lofton propped up a pillow. He was kind of pumped, and felt like talking. “I didn’t join an agency because I didn’t want to work with . . . One of the advantages of being a private investigator, why it’s such a popular fictional character, is because while they work in law enforcement, they’re seen as independent. I figured if I was going to work for an agency I might as well join the police department. I also knew I’d be doing a lot of insurance fraud, shit like that. It’s bread and butter work, but I didn’t want to do that—taking pictures of some poor bastard on compensation who’s out roofing his house. I preferred to work on the other side of the fence, where a guy’s fighting a compensation hearing, you know, and establishing evidence to prove that he’s really incapacitated.” As the words were leaving his mouth, he realized the improvisation didn’t make much sense. “You see what I’m saying?”
    â€œWhat other stuff? Cheating wives?”
    â€œThat’s spousal activity,” Lofton said, passing her