Hot Shot by Kevin Allman Read Free Book Online Page A

spark.”
    Kitty stopped in front of a car and opened her bag. I’d envisioned her driving a Mary Kay–pink Cadillac convertible, so it was a disappointment to see that her car was a plain Mercedes, painted banker’s-lamp green. She got out her keys and deactivated the alarm. The Mercedes gave off a metallic chirp. “Can I drop you anywhere, dear?”
    â€œNo, I’ve still got my rental car.”
    â€œAll right, then.” I didn’t move. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?”
    â€œYou know Jack Danziger. What do you think the chances are…”
    â€œOf the book getting done? Do you think you have enough information?”
    â€œWell, I’ve got the manuscript, and the tapes.” Not a lie.
    Kitty appraised me shrewdly. Despite her dithery demeanor, this woman was no dummy. “And do you want to, dear?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, let me see what I can do, then.” Kitty punched in a combination and opened her car door. She gave me another smile, and this one didn’t look so weary. “The book will happen. One way or another. I promise.”
    *   *   *
    It was seven-thirty by the time I got back to Claudia’s. She wasn’t there. Judging from the debris level, she’d barely been home since I left. By the time I took a cool shower and put my dirty clothes in a garbage bag for the cleaners, it was almost eight, and Claudia still wasn’t home. I hadn’t eaten since Denny’s that morning, so I raided the refrigerator and came up with a container of coffee yogurt, a jar with olive water at the bottom, and some kind of leftovers in an old margarine tub. Grumbling, I called the House of Phuket and ordered in twenty-eight dollars’ worth of Thai food. It was expensive, but … well … phuket.
    When the phone rang a few minutes later, I assumed it was the delivery boy, lost somewhere, but it was Jack Danziger.
    â€œThe book’s off, right? Well, nice working with you.”
    He laughed. “Hey, Sport. Don’t jump to conclusions. I thought you’d want to know: I just got off the phone with Enrique Gustavo of the Mexican police.”
    â€œSo what happened?”
    â€œThey think it was a simple case of robbery that got out of hand. The place was torn apart and some jewelry was missing. None of the neighbors noticed anything, but from what Gustavo told me, I gather that break-ins aren’t uncommon down there.”
    I was telling him about Via del Paraiso, how the luxury was cheek-to-jowl with the poverty, when Claudia came in. Her hair was tied back in a purple bandanna, and there was fine plaster dust all over her shirt and shorts. The bags under her eyes were big enough for two weeks in Cancun. She dumped three sacks of food on the counter and disappeared into the bathroom.
    â€œI’ve got a breakfast meeting tomorrow,” said Jack. “But I’ll be in touch with your agent sometime tomorrow, Sport.”
    â€œThanks.” I hung up, uneasy about something. Something about the conversation didn’t sit right, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I opened one of the bags and took out a container of soup. The aromas of lemongrass and galangal permeated the room like steam.
    â€œYou off?” Claudia yelled.
    â€œYeah. Thanks for getting the food.”
    â€œI met the delivery boy downstairs. You owe me fourteen bucks.” The shower went on with a shudder of pipes. “So when’d you get back?”
    â€œA couple of hours ago.”
    â€œI thought you were there through the weekend.… Why can’t I get any hot water?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDid everything go okay?”
    â€œI’ll tell you later. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll get the food set up?”
    â€œI can’t hear you,” she yelled. “I’m in the shower.”
    The kitchen table was still covered with my unpacked