Noir by Robert Coover Read Free Book Online Page A

pockets, so when Blanche returned she picked it up and locked it in her desk drawer. For expenses, she said. We have a lot to do. I have learned that the deceased’s estate passes to one of two heirs, but must pass intact, meaning that one of them has to relinquish their share or die. A kind of macabre joke. When you gave her back her undies, she gazed at them with something between repugnance and dismay, then asked you to turn around. What do you know about your client’s background, Mr. Noir?
    Well, she comes from a small country town with tree-lined streets and green lawns where everybody loves each other.
    Sure, she said. And bodies buried under the rose bushes and unspeakable horrors in the family den. I didn’t mean that. You can look now. I mean, what do you know about her mother, her brother, her boyfriend, and her father, the drug dealer?
    Town pharmacist, you corrected. Your clothes were warm from the dryer and comforting. Still having trouble keeping your brainpod from bobbing about, though, and it was therefore less useful than usual.
    Where are they?
    You supposed they were back at the farm. What did they have to do with this case?
    If her father was supplying her with poison and whatever narcotics her husband was using, then they could all be involved.
    But who said—?
    And what about the person you’re supposed to follow?
    I’ve got a lead on that. Last night. From Snark. That’s how I got in trouble.
    With Officer Snark?
    No. Afterwards. Though he might have been there. The details are blurry. But Snark told me Mister Big has the hots for medieval toy soldiers. I’ll buy a few and advertise them and see if I can get a nibble.
    The sort of miniatures he would want you can’t afford. Not even with the black widow’s handouts. You’ll have to rent them. I’ll look for a dealer.

    IT IS YOUR OWN COMFORTABLE FRESH-SMELLING UNDERwear, warm from the dryer, rags though they be, that you are looking forward to now. But Blue’s ten minutes are nearly up when Blanche returns empty-handed. The clothes are still in the dryer, she had to wash them twice to get the morgue smells out, it will be another twenty minutes. You can’t wait. Blue is due any second. You turn your back and give Blanche her drawers back (I hope that tattoo was done with a clean needle, she says reproachfully), shove your bare feet into your squishy dogs, pull on your cold wet trenchcoat, drop your .22 and Blanche’s skin lotion in the pockets, perch your fedora atop the bandages, and hurry out, down the back stairs. At the alley door, you check the mirror apparatus you’ve rigged there as a lookout and see that some lunk is waiting for you outside, cosh in hand. Blue covering all bets. There’s probably somebody on the fire escape, too. Time for the old straw dummy routine, hoping only this isn’t a cop who has already been burned. You keep the dummy down here, dressed in a trenchcoat and fedora for just such occasions. Cops. Landlords. Disappointed clients. Irate husbands. You spread the dummy head-down on the stairs, unlatch the door quietly, stand so as to be hidden behind the opened door, throw an old kitchen chair and cry out: Oh fuck! Help! Your would-be assailant rushes in and delivers a blow to the dummy just as you brain him with the butt of your .22. It’s not one of Blue’s boys. It’s the suit, the Hammer, the thug who accosted you in Loui’s Lounge, the one you slugged and were slugged by down at the docks. He’s out cold. Your hurting head hurts more to think of how his head will hurt, but just desserts for the dickhead after what he did to you last night. You quickly rifle his jacket pockets, switch your rod with his .45, dart out into the rainy alley. You can hear sirens out front. You take a right, a left, a right, losing yourself in the alleyed labyrinth. Loui’s is a good idea. Flame will let you hole up in her room and the food’s good.
    The alley. You can’t say it’s your home away from home, having no