a bitch!” he snapped.
Matthews’s glare of disapproval turned to surprise as Trumaine jerked back his chair, bolted upright and ran from the office without a word of explanation.
Chapter Ten
Trumaine drove back to Sunshine Avenue.
It was late in the night and he was tired, but he needed to get into Jimmy Boyd’s apartment before someone else could get his hands on the card. If his hunch was wrong, the card would still be sitting at the bottom of the desk drawer and he had run for nothing. But if he was right, the punch card was a clue and proof and someone might want to destroy it. If Boyd had really killed himself and if he was the murderer of both Jarvas, then there was a good chance that the card was still at the Rampart.
Trumaine yawned again. He shook his head and tried to stay awake by focusing on what happened on the sidewalk.
At long last, the throng shy of the day had poured out of the decrepit apartments and moldy basements to get a whiff of fresh air and a slice of whatever pie the night brought. All of them were craving for something. Be it repletion, oblivion or lewdness, they would eagerly crowd around those who offered them at the lowest price and buy whatever they needed.
Cheap restaurants, dirty inns and hot dog stands. The gaunt peddlers stoned around the clock who sold cannabis to ease the senses. The impeccably dressed, hyper-alert hawks who sold overpriced, synthetic cocaine to get out of the world for a ride. The seasoned, tired hookers that made it for a job and the younger, wary girls who made it once in a while for a buck.
Tonight, anything and everything could be bought and enjoyed on Sunshine Avenue ...
Trumaine kept on driving; he was almost there now.
He parked in front of the Rampart.
As he climbed from the car, a playful young woman of possibly twenty spotted him.
She wore stylish, high-heeled shoes and a black dress cut by God himself, but she didn’t need any of that to make an impression. Because she had two things that went a long way to beat the competition, if she had any: she was young and she was as fresh as a daisy. Trumaine studied her long platinum hair: clearly, it wasn’t hers—her real hair hid under the wig, it was shorter, a more natural color, chestnut or even jet black, and belonged to a diligent university student.
“ You need a ride?” asked the girl with a little, trembling voice that was afraid of both the bigness of the night and its darkness.
“ Not tonight, kiddo.”
The girl groaned, disappointed.
“ You should keep your nose off the street, baby. The night looks great and friendly, but it can bite hard. Are you willing to take the chance? If it bites, it can be a big chunk of you. You’d better go home, bury your nose in some Science book.”
Trumaine didn’t mean to be nasty, of course. It was just for conversation, a little awkward attempt at kindling some human warmth. But it got the opposite effect on the girl, who rolled her eyes and snorted. The small voice became resentful at once.
“ Move along, daddy,” she said. “This is a dating shop. If you’re not dating, you’re just crowding the office.”
Her fierce, black eyes stared at him.
Trumaine grinned, but he felt hurt. “You take no prisoners tonight, huh?”
She didn’t say anything.
“ So long,” he said, at last.
He turned on his heels with a scowl, bounded up the Rampart’s marble staircase and got in.
The hall wasn’t empty anymore.
The old desk clerk Trumaine had seen in the morning was on the shift again. He was checking-in a couple of customers for a couple of hours: a middle-aged, paunchy businessman who had since long traded his fit and lean body for a bag of money, and a rotund woman that was with him. She wasn’t so young any more. As she clung to her man, the hem of her skirt crawled up so high on her back it went stellar. That and a wide breast compensated for her lack of beauty.
A third, younger man sat in one of the floral-velvet armchairs
Matthews’s glare of disapproval turned to surprise as Trumaine jerked back his chair, bolted upright and ran from the office without a word of explanation.
Chapter Ten
Trumaine drove back to Sunshine Avenue.
It was late in the night and he was tired, but he needed to get into Jimmy Boyd’s apartment before someone else could get his hands on the card. If his hunch was wrong, the card would still be sitting at the bottom of the desk drawer and he had run for nothing. But if he was right, the punch card was a clue and proof and someone might want to destroy it. If Boyd had really killed himself and if he was the murderer of both Jarvas, then there was a good chance that the card was still at the Rampart.
Trumaine yawned again. He shook his head and tried to stay awake by focusing on what happened on the sidewalk.
At long last, the throng shy of the day had poured out of the decrepit apartments and moldy basements to get a whiff of fresh air and a slice of whatever pie the night brought. All of them were craving for something. Be it repletion, oblivion or lewdness, they would eagerly crowd around those who offered them at the lowest price and buy whatever they needed.
Cheap restaurants, dirty inns and hot dog stands. The gaunt peddlers stoned around the clock who sold cannabis to ease the senses. The impeccably dressed, hyper-alert hawks who sold overpriced, synthetic cocaine to get out of the world for a ride. The seasoned, tired hookers that made it for a job and the younger, wary girls who made it once in a while for a buck.
Tonight, anything and everything could be bought and enjoyed on Sunshine Avenue ...
Trumaine kept on driving; he was almost there now.
He parked in front of the Rampart.
As he climbed from the car, a playful young woman of possibly twenty spotted him.
She wore stylish, high-heeled shoes and a black dress cut by God himself, but she didn’t need any of that to make an impression. Because she had two things that went a long way to beat the competition, if she had any: she was young and she was as fresh as a daisy. Trumaine studied her long platinum hair: clearly, it wasn’t hers—her real hair hid under the wig, it was shorter, a more natural color, chestnut or even jet black, and belonged to a diligent university student.
“ You need a ride?” asked the girl with a little, trembling voice that was afraid of both the bigness of the night and its darkness.
“ Not tonight, kiddo.”
The girl groaned, disappointed.
“ You should keep your nose off the street, baby. The night looks great and friendly, but it can bite hard. Are you willing to take the chance? If it bites, it can be a big chunk of you. You’d better go home, bury your nose in some Science book.”
Trumaine didn’t mean to be nasty, of course. It was just for conversation, a little awkward attempt at kindling some human warmth. But it got the opposite effect on the girl, who rolled her eyes and snorted. The small voice became resentful at once.
“ Move along, daddy,” she said. “This is a dating shop. If you’re not dating, you’re just crowding the office.”
Her fierce, black eyes stared at him.
Trumaine grinned, but he felt hurt. “You take no prisoners tonight, huh?”
She didn’t say anything.
“ So long,” he said, at last.
He turned on his heels with a scowl, bounded up the Rampart’s marble staircase and got in.
The hall wasn’t empty anymore.
The old desk clerk Trumaine had seen in the morning was on the shift again. He was checking-in a couple of customers for a couple of hours: a middle-aged, paunchy businessman who had since long traded his fit and lean body for a bag of money, and a rotund woman that was with him. She wasn’t so young any more. As she clung to her man, the hem of her skirt crawled up so high on her back it went stellar. That and a wide breast compensated for her lack of beauty.
A third, younger man sat in one of the floral-velvet armchairs
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