Waiting by Frank M. Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

sweet-tempered eighteen with a bad complexion and a figure that wouldn’t stop. Both had given her an attitude, one that had changed a lot when her sexy walk became a middle-aged waddle. She was an attorney now and considerably more self-assured; she also seemed more comfortable than the others with growing older.
    Pudgy Charlie Allen looked sweaty and nervous and obviously guilty of something, but then he usually did. Charlie had been the bravest of them all; he’d always figured they were going to get caught anyway so what the hell. He now had two kids and was assistant city librarian for San Francisco Public—he was the only one Artie really envied, purely because he seemed the happiest.
    Then there was Mitch Levin, his best friend and a regular racquetball partner he could always beat—the best kind. Tall, wiry, with a sharp nose and thin face that made you think of the old Strand drawings of Sherlock Holmes. A professional bachelor and man-about-town whom they all claimed to envy but whom nobody did. As always, Mitch was dressed to the nines but still managed to look at home in a south-of-Market grungy coffee shop, even with his steel-framed granny glasses. Mitch had a sharp mind and was somebody Artie always felt he could depend on. His only fault was that he had been a captain in ’Nam when Artie had been a sergeant, and Mitch had never quite forgotten it.
    Artie lingered a moment at Dave Chandler, the leading man and director of Theater DuPre, making a production of ladling sugar into his coffee and stirring it with a plastic spoon. Whatever Dave did, he did it as if an audience were watching. Boyishly handsome, so the reviewers said, even in his midforties. What irritated Artie was that the reviewers were right; for Chandler, time seemed to have stood still. In real life, he had been cast against type: a man who was universally well liked and would give you the shirt off his back if only he had one. Scratch him behind his left ear and his right foot would twitch. Dave was an inoffensive guy but always on stage. To the best of Artie’s knowledge, the real David Chandler had never stood up.
    “Schuler’s just as big a bastard as always,” Mary said, grimacing at a trace of lipstick on her cup. “He didn’t need all of us down here.” She looked like everybody’s mother, Artie thought—a great asset when she was trying to convince a jury. “Goddamned cold in there. At least they could have told us to keep our coats … .”
    Her voice faded and they were all quiet for a moment, remembering the stainless-steel table and what Larry had looked like.
    “Anybody talk to Larry yesterday?” As usual, Mitch had elected himself to chair the meeting.
    “I had an appointment two days ago.” Charlie Allen looked uncertain. “He talked about the meeting but he didn’t say much.” They all stared at him expectantly, and he shrugged. “Just a general physical—prostate exam, that sort of thing. Pretty embarrassing when a friend does it.”
    “Thanks for sharing,” Mitch said dryly. “Anybody know of any enemies Larry might have had?”
    Artie certainly didn’t; neither did the others. There was a long silence. Then Chandler said; “What about drugs?”
    Mary stared at him. “Drugs?”
    “Don’t doctors have access?” Chandler said defensively. “Maybe somebody wanted him to write a prescription, badly. You call it—you know more about drug cases than I do.”
    “I doubt it,” Mary sniffed.
    Their food came and they fell silent again. Artie’s pastrami-on-rye was better than he expected.
    Mitch took several bites of his sandwich, then pushed it away. “Anybody have any ideas why Larry was in the Tenderloin?”
    It sounded too much like McNeal, and Artie muttered, “He sure wasn’t looking for a peep show.”
    Schuler had put his finger on something during their meeting, something that Mark had mentioned at home. Charlie Allen said it for him.
    “Anybody know what Larry was going to talk