Killer Move by Michael Marshall Read Free Book Online Page B

evening shift.”
    “Not really,” I said. “Less I want her to take the commission, too.”
    “She going with? To the meeting?”
    “No. This is a solo flight.”
    “Well, grab something to eat in between, because the fridge is empty and the situation will not have improved by the time you get back.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    “And be good, tycoon-boy.”
    Then she was gone, leaving me wondering what that was supposed to mean.

CHAPTER SIX
    I got home at a little before midnight, and by then—if I hadn’t been so tired—I would have been pretty mad.
    After talking to Steph I drove down to the Circle and killed half an hour shooting the breeze with Max, the guy who looks after a lot of the commercial property there. He had no new listings, and answered the inquiry with a slight smile. I’d been talking to Max for over a year, looking for the kind of place that might work for Bill Moore Realty when the time came. Previously he’d been enthusiastic—he didn’t handle residential, so there’d be no conflict of interest—but this time I got a strong hint of “yeah, right,” in the way he dealt with me—as if he was starting to get the idea that me setting up on my own (as he’d done ten years before, also after a period working for Shore) was a dream that was becoming more insubstantial by the month. I kicked against this by dropping hints that I was on the verge of big things Any Day Now, which left me feeling exposed and vulnerable and something of an ass.
    He also asked whether I was sure I’d got the right name for the business, given that Bill Moore could be heard as “bill more,” which is not what you want in a Realtor, or indeed anyone in a service industry. Annoyingly, he had a point. Having spent the last six years getting myself known around town as Bill rather than William, however—Bill being much more direct and personal and can-do—it was too late to change. I put a pin in the problem and set it aside.
    I thought about getting a sandwich but couldn’t get the idea to generate any traction and so I wound up going to the Ben & Jerry’s instead. The area inside had the air, as usual, of having recently withstood a concerted attack by forces loyal to some other ice cream manufacturer. I noticed a girl I hadn’t seen before, standing behind the counter.
    “Hey,” she said as I wandered up.
    She was skinny, early twenties, curly black hair in goth/emo style. Drapey black clothes under the corporate apron, a stud through her nose. The effect was not unattractive, though had I been the place’s manager I might have wanted the staff to look like they’d be dishing out fresh dairy products full of organic, carbon-neutral goodness, rather than bat wings sprinkled with toad’s blood.
    “Hey,” I said. “I’ll take a . . .”
    I trailed off. I actually had no idea what I wanted. Maybe nothing. The conversation with Max had pissed me off more than I’d realized, and I was struggling to pull my mood back up. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted ice cream or if I was just in here to get out of the tail end of the afternoon’s heat.
    “I know what you need,” the girl said.
    “You do?”
    “You bet. You want to take a seat outside? Oh, and give me six bucks. That allows for the generous tip you will wish to confer upon me, after the fact.”
    Slightly bemused, I did as she asked. Five minutes later she emerged onto the sidewalk with a bowl of something pale orange in color. I peered at it.
    “Hell is that?”
    “Mascarpone Mandarin frozen yogurt, with a twist.”
    She stood there pertly while I took a tentative mouthful. It was refreshing and yet not too tart, and actually very nice. “Good call,” I said. “I’m liking it.”
    “It’s supposed to be called Multimazingmagical Mandarin Mascarpone Madness, for your future ordering convenience. Only, saying all that makes me want to kill myself.”
    “I’ll remember it. You nailed me.”
    “It’s my superpower. One of several, I