The Tell-Tale Con by Aimee Gilchrist Read Free Book Online

in.”
    â€œThen you better let him know I’m coming.  Because I’ll be there in two minutes.”
    I ignored his further protests.  Without being in his room, there was no way I could tell.  Hearing the voices wasn’t enough.  I needed to know everything to really know what was happening. 
    Shoving a sweatshirt over my tank top, I skidded down the hall in sock covered feet and headed for the stairs.  I hit Mr. Wong’s with so much inertia that I almost couldn’t stop when I discovered Mr. Wong himself standing in the middle of the Laundromat, right in my way.  I scrambled to get control and ended up slammed against a dryer, one leg in each direction.
    â€œOh good, you are here.”  He didn’t seem remotely curious as to why I was running around in boxer shorts at two in the morning with my hair sticking straight up.  Nor did he seem alarmed by our near collision.  “I need to make noodles.  You watch the machines.”
    Mr. Wong’s was a 24-hour establishment run by Mr. Wong and his wife, June.  Their son, Roger, owned the grocery two doors up, and sometimes he, or his wife, a girl from Texas that I had to listen to complaints about pretty much daily, would fill in too.  But there were times that someone needed to step away.  Mr. Wong and I had an understanding.  I would take over in a crunch, and in return he let us use the washer in the corner that was broken, and if you hit it just the right way it would wash for free.  The integrity of my jeans and personal hygiene demanded that I hang around so that Mr. Wong could make some freaking noodles.  But the noodles and jeans would have to wait.
    I held up my hand, all my fingers raised.  “Five minutes Mr. Wong.  I’ll be right back, I swear.”
    He had this face, I have never seen it on another person used with such perfection, that made me feel about two feet tall.  But now wasn’t the time to fall prey to his displeasure.  “Right back,” I repeated, edging for the door. 
    Harrison continued carrying on over the walkie-talkie about how he couldn’t have me over.
    As soon as I hit the street I realized how underdressed I was for this little excursion.  Freezing, I ran across the road, watching for drunks.  The last thing I wanted to do was get hit. 
    â€œWhat apartment do you live in?” I asked into the microphone.
    â€œI’m coming down.  Just stay in the lobby,” Harrison hissed. 
    Well, at the least the lobby was inside.  My teeth were chattering.  The desert at night is no place to be in shorts.  I bounded up the massive staircase to the pretentious Library lobby, and, as promised, Harrison was already there.  Dressed in ridiculous plaid pajama bottoms and a gray T-shirt with a lopsidedly stretched collar, he looked about five years old.  And pissed.  Though whether at the voices or at my insistence on coming over, I couldn’t say. 
    The marble lobby floor was almost as cold as the cement outside had been.  I should have at least worn shoes.  The guy sitting behind the counter, the security guard maybe, ogled me from his chair in a way that was utterly gross.  Harrison’s expression, on the other hand, did not improve. 
    â€œWhat’s the deal with King Leer?” I indicated to Captain Lascivious with my thumb.
    â€œI told him you were my girlfriend, and my parents didn’t like you so I had to sneak you in during the night for a booty call.  I should have told him you were a prostitute,” he growled.
    I saw the guy pocket a bill with his smarmy smile still intact.  “Did you pay him?”
    I guess it wasn’t my business, but it bothered me a little that Harrison had to pay the guy to get me in.  “Just a hundred bucks.  It’s supposed to get you in four times.  You might as well come and listen to the voices before they