Planet Willie by Josh Shoemake Read Free Book Online

that.
    “Hi Jean,” I
say, giving her a little smile I’ve developed that goes by the name of the
Diligent Schoolboy. A lot of rosy cheek-work and a general widening of the eyes
designed to give them full advantage of the baby blues. Works wonders on the
over-sixty set, but apparently it’s been a decade or three since anybody worked
a wonder on Jean. Terrible how we neglect our elderly, I think.
    She looks me
over and tells me to have a seat on the couch, where I get to flipping around
in some ladies magazines, catching up on my beauty tips and whatnot. Meanwhile
Jean goes about typing like the possessed. She’s wearing these little half-moon
glasses with a cord around her neck and has to get so close to that computer
screen to see what she’s doing that she must be feeling some electrical fuzz on
the tip of her nose, which can’t be good for the general health of the body.
Then as if to confirm my diagnosis, she starts making these little indigestion
noises that cause a man to think back to what he last ate and consider whether
it’s still sitting right. Can’t really recall too much since the breakfast
buffet, and that starts the old stomach rumbling. I could eat – let’s just say
that – and the more I think about it, the more the old stomach gets to feeling
the need to express its feelings. I mean it’s some serious experimental music
in there with Jean and me. I’m thinking we ought to consider taking it on the
road. Thank you, Wichita, I’m thinking. Looks like we’ve got a good crowd out
there tonight.
    I’m
introducing the other members of the band to the good people of Kansas when the elevator doors slide open to reveal a little Hawaiian fella smelling of
Tex-Mex, and it is frightening how in tune with the world I am. Armies of
little Hawaiian deliverymen out there anticipating my needs. He’s got two big
brown paper bags and seems to be on a first name basis with Jean. He hands over
the bags and waits while she talks into an intercom on her desk. “Loku’s here,”
she says.
    “I have no
time for guessing games, Jean,” a man’s voice says.
    “ Loku .
With lunch,” she says, and this young guy in a cheap suit immediately comes
hurtling out of the nearest office. Hair so slicked back you wouldn’t exactly
call it hair. There are a hundred uses of petroleum jelly, and this is one.
    He pays off
Loku, whose spoken vocabulary may or may not be restricted to the Hawaiian
language, and gives a bag to Jean, which is honestly exactly what she doesn’t
need. She points me out, he comes over to shake my hand.
    “Mister Lee,”
he says. “I’m Brice Darling. Mister Shore called yesterday to say you might be
stopping by. Have you eaten?”
    “I was hoping
you’d ask,” I purr.
    He nods and
leads me back to his office, which unfortunately returns my opinion of the
insurance industry back to about where it started. Sort of like a broom closet
with a diploma on the wall. He pulls out two big Styrofoam cups of chili from
the bag and provides his own plastic spoons from a drawer. The chili appears to
have pineapple in it, but I guess you can’t complain.
    “Good of you
to see me, Darling,” I say as we sit. “I was hoping you’d let me have a look at
whatever information you have concerning the estate of Harry Shore.”
    “I’m not
authorized to do that without the expressed permission of our client,” he says,
spooning up some chili.
    “Correct me if
I’m wrong here, Darling,” I say, “but Shore called yesterday expressing that
permission.”
    “Not to look
into his entire estate,” Darling says, real pleased with himself here. Been in
an office so long he thinks like a Xerox machine. The good news is that there’s
a framed black and white photograph on his desk of Miss Ava Gardner, in The
Killers if I’m not mistaken, and anytime you get Miss Ava Gardner in a
room, you figure there must be some kind of hope.
    “Let’s skip
the estate,” I say, taking a bite of chili and wishing