The Hours of the Virgin by Loren D. Estleman Read Free Book Online Page A

City of Detroit had managed to overlook during its many election-year efforts to close the theater permanently. I flattened myself against the main entrance door and eased it open. No one shot at me. Under the security lights an icy gust blew a purple advertising leaflet against the right rear tire of my car, then took the sheet across Telegraph. The Cutlass was the only car parked in the lot. The ticket clerk had been in too much of a hurry when she left the booth to close the door or finish her lunch; half a Twinkie lay on the greasy paper sack that had contained her liverwurst sandwich.
    I went back inside and did some more detecting. One of the electric wall sconces was out. When I took a closer look, I found out where the bullet had gone that was meant for me. The slug had punched a hole in the tin fixture, parted a wire, and buried itself in the mortar between two cinderblocks. I couldn’t reach it with my pocket knife.
    The movie ended while I was still trying. The screen went white a minute later, accompanied by a distant flapping, like a moth hurling itself against a screen. I found the door to the projection-room stairs behind a seam in the carpeted wall opposite the one where the bullet had penetrated. I could see my breath in the well; no sense wasting heat on the help. At the top I grasped the knob of yet another steel door, tightened my grip on the revolver and went in fast, spinning on my heel to cover all the corners. A plastic dashboard troll with orange hair greeted me with the demented grin of a major-appliance salesman. It was glued to a lighting console studded with buttons and metal switches.
    The room had a folding cot with a doubled-over pillow and a blanket as thick as a dishtowel, none of them in use at present. A plastic coffee mug with the South Park kids on it steamed on a folding card table next to a copy of High Times spread open to an article on Colombian papers. That old familiar smell of scorched grain clung to everything, but no half-finished joint smoldered in the molded-plastic ashtray. The projectionist hadn’t left in such a panic he forgot the important things.
    I almost wasted a bullet when the small electric space heater on the floor kicked in with a buzz and a whir. I returned the Smith to its clip on my belt.
    The take-up reel on the big projector was still spinning, throwing a spoked shadow on the walls and ceiling. I located the switch and turned it off. There was no window, but that was okay. I had a feeling if I looked outside I’d see a world bombed into kibble, with me the sole survivor.
    The first siren swooped and fell then. I should have known the cops would make it too.

6
    When John Alderdyce saw me he hesitated a step and said shit.
    I’d found the rest of the house lights on the console and turned them up. When he came in I was in the auditorium, sitting on one hip on the arm of one of the back-row seats, facing the entrance. He looked blacker than ever in the light of the recessed ceiling fixtures, a polished ebony carving in a camel’s-hair overcoat and light gray double-breasted suit, tailored to his garage-door frame. Since reaching middle age he’d put on forty pounds and lost a lot of hair, but he had the bone structure to handle the extra weight, and his balding front just accentuated the angular configuration of a head that would have been at home on Easter Island. We’ve known each other most of our lives.
    â€œI wish I’d shaved,” I said. “I didn’t think no tussle at the Tomcat rated no visit from no inspector.” I’d only seen him a few times since the department promoted him out of my league.
    â€œI was on the Southfield Freeway when the radio call came through. Any car in the vicinity. My luck.” He swept his coattail aside and returned the nickel-plated snubnose he’d come in with to his kidney holster. He was the only cop in the city who hadn’t gone to elephant calibers after the