The Dirt Peddler by Dorien Grey Read Free Book Online

of these kids have never had anything of their own that depended on them,” he’d said. “Plants need attention, and they’re almost as good as pets.” Then, with typical Jonathan logic, he added, “Except you don’t have to walk them.”
    We agreed that he could drive me to the office, since it was almost on the way to Haven House, go deliver the plants, then come back and pick me up. I didn’t think it would take too long with Fletcher.
    I got to the office at about quarter to one. Though the building was open until five, it was nearly deserted. The diner and newsstand were closed, no one was in sight, and the sound of my footsteps echoed through the lobby. I made a pot of coffee more out of habit than need, figuring maybe Fletcher would like a cup.
    Well, that was fun, my mind-voice said as I flipped the On switch on the coffee maker. Now what will we do? I didn’t have a Saturday paper for the crossword puzzle, and there was little point in trying to start any sort of project. And it was all so damned quiet.
    I finally settled for opening the middle drawer of my desk, which hadn’t been cleaned out in decades, and started rummaging idly through it, finding enough pencils—a couple with points—to build a small log cabin, and more pens than I could ever use, most of them without ink.
    I heard the elevator doors open and footsteps approaching. Not a moment too soon. I slid the drawer closed and got up to go to the door.
    Larry Fletcher turned out to be…well…average, and “average” is a pretty hard thing to describe. Hot guys are usually easy to describe—just let your fantasies run wild. Singularly unattractive people usually have some distinctive features that make them so. But “average”…well (again), average-looking people look pretty much like everyone else. Fletcher was one of them—early twenties, average height, average build, longish brown hair, glasses. Walk down a busy street and eight guys out of ten you pass could be Larry Fletcher. But he certainly was not, at first glance, the flaming faggot that Tunderew had led me to expect.
    If I could think of one word to describe my first impression of him, it would be “meek.”
    We shook hands, and I noticed that while his grip wasn’t limp by any means, it wasn’t exactly the confidence-filled handshake of a motivational speaker. After an exchange of greetings, I gestured him to a chair near the desk as I closed the door behind him.
    “Coffee?”
    “No, thanks.” He looked and sounded a bit nervous.
    I sat down behind my desk and waited while Fletcher’s eyes reflected his discomfort by slowly circling around the room in smaller and smaller sweeps—like water draining from a sink—to finally meet my own, briefly.
    “Why, exactly, did you want to see me? I told you on the phone I won’t say anything against Tony.” Tony, eh? Interesting.
    “What makes you think I’d want you to say anything against Mr. Tunderew?”
    “That’s what the lawyers from Craylaw and Collier wanted. They threatened to sue me, but I just told them to go ahead and try. I thought you were working for them until I saw you just now.”
    ???? “I’m sorry?” My face probably reflected my confusion.
    Fletcher gave me a shy smile. “I’ve seen you in the bars. Several times. You never noticed me, of course.”
    What do you mean “of course?” I wondered. And why did that make me feel like a ten-pound bag of bat guano?
    “And I could tell those lawyers are so uptight I’ll bet their sphincters would slam shut at the very idea of hiring a gay P.I.”
    I broke out laughing, and after a quick trepidatious look to see if I was laughing at him or with him, he joined me, covering his mouth with his hand like a kid. The ice pretty much melted away after that. “What were Craylaw and Collier’s lawyers wanting you to say?”
    “They thought Tony had been breeching company security and stealing files.”
    “On Governor Keene.” I didn’t have to make it a