The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura Disilverio Read Free Book Online Page B

reception, he gave me the news before I even made it through the door. Not that I had any intention of actually entering the room once I caught a whiff of it. It smelled like stale beer (courtesy of the listing tower of empty cans arranged on the windowsill), dirty laundry (undoubtedly from the pile of grimy T-shirts and tighty whities piled in one corner), and damp metal and mold (from the rackety air conditioner halfheartedly spitting cool air into the room). A small stash of marijuana was partially hidden by a lamp on the nightstand, and a stack of DVDs—a mix of thrillers and porn—had been knocked over so bare boobs, guns, Jason Statham,Michelle Pfeiffer, and Clint Eastwood stared up from the cases all which-way near the television. Three flies buzzing around a Cheetos bag on the dresser flew off when Ham set his Budweiser down on it to greet me. It was nine a.m. The boldest of the flies was back before the first drip of condensation rolled off the can and onto the dresser’s scarred finish.
    “C’mon in, Amy-Faye,” Ham said, making as if to hug me. He wore only a pair of running shorts, which displayed his muscular legs, and a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned so his hairy paunch hung out.
    I stepped back out of hugging range. “I’m hungry. Let’s get breakfast. My treat.”
    Ham gave me a half-resentful, half-hurt look that said he knew what I was doing, but muttered, “Okay.”
    “I’ll meet you at the diner,” I said, hurrying to my van before he could suggest we drive together. No way, not even for Ivy’s sake, was I getting into the same vehicle as Ham. I’d made that mistake already and barely escaped with my virtue; I was a firm believer in “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”
    I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Pancake Pig, with its chef’s-hatted pig statue holding aloft a plate of pancakes from atop a silver pole, and pulled open the door. Chrome and white and turquoise predominated in the diner’s decor, and a 1950s sound track vibrated through a cheap speaker system. The Pig always did a good business, and I grabbed the last table available, exchanginggreetings with friends and acquaintances as I passed. I had time to order two coffees and a short stack of blueberry pancakes before Ham arrived, looking considerably more presentable with his parrot-patterned shirt buttoned and his hair slicked back.
    The coffees arrived when he did, and he slumped into the seat opposite me, added two packets of sugar to his cup, and slurped half of it down before saying, “I can’t get my head around Ivy’s being dead. Honest to God, I can’t. It’s really knocked me off my game.”
    I decided to take that as an apology for the apartment and his appearance when I arrived. “I almost called Ivy today,” I said, “to ask her if she wanted to watch
The Maltese Falcon
with the Readaholics tonight. Then I remembered.”
    “Suicide.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why she had to do that. It’s not like she had any real problems. I mean, she had a good job with a steady paycheck, a nice house. Lots of people don’t have that.”
    Meaning him.
    “I mean, she wasn’t going to prison or anything, and she didn’t have some awful disease, or a husband who was cheating on her, so why? She even had plenty of friends and family who’d’ve helped her out if she’d let us know she was in a bind. She had me, didn’t she?”
    I didn’t respond, merely looking at him over the rim of my coffee cup. Ham was no one’s idea of a confidant or port in a storm. If anything, he added to Ivy’s troubles.
    When I didn’t respond, Ham tried again. “She’dbeen depressed, you know. Anyone could see it. I’m sure you noticed.” He watched me closely, even though he seemed to be scanning the menu.
    “I can’t say that I did,” I said bluntly. “She seemed the same as always Monday night. A little pissed off about something, maybe.”
    “She was my sister. We had