Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) by P.T. Reade Page A
Authors: P.T. Reade
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had. Thirty minutes on the job, and I was about to get to get paid in record time.
Moments later, the man came back out. He looked to his car and gave a little nod. With that, a curvy woman stepped out of the passenger seat. She held a gaudy-looking umbrella upward to the sprinkling drizzle. As it fanned open, it blocked my only clear shot of her face.
“Damn,” I muttered.
I watched the couple head down the little breezeway that connected the rooms. They stopped at the second-to-last entrance, and the man unlocked the door, letting the woman in first. She closed her umbrella, but I was still unable to see her face. The man entered and closed the door behind him.
I took a small bag from the passenger seat and sat it in my lap. Grabbed my digital camera and powered it up. Cameras had always made sense to me. In fact, photography was one of the few remnants from my old life that I clung to. The simplicity of frame and shoot was somehow comforting.
I also took out a stick of gum. Pushed it into my mouth and started slowly chewing in an effort to bury the need for a drink.
I tried to think of the last time I had taken a woman into a cheap hotel room. It had been during college — easily twenty years ago. Unless things had changed in the realm of social conventions, I was pretty sure there was nothing new to getting laid in a place like this. I doubted they would spend time talking about the weather or pointing out the decorating expertise of the people that had thrown this shabby dive together. I figured that in the minute and a half they had been in the room, they were probably already halfway to oblivion.
I stepped out of the car and took my time walking across the parking lot. I held my Canon Eos close under my leather jacket so it wouldn’t get wet, and I felt the rain, a steady October drizzle, lightly cooling my head. There was something almost pleasant about it. I made a note in my head, trying to put a few items in the POSITIVES column for London. So far, the NEGATIVE column was winning by a long shot.
I made my way to the breezeway and looked around. There was no one else traipsing around the parking lot or the corridor and really, who would? It was1:30 in the afternoon on a wet Wednesday. This realization hi t me hard and made me feel a wave of depression, so familiar since the events six months ago.
I moved along, passing the tiny windows and the doors. I briefly thought of all of the fragments of lives that had taken place behind those doors and windows. Passion, lust, anger, and a healthy dose of deception ; something about it was almost poetic. I let the thought fade out. I did not want to be going down that path, and I was nowhere near a poet.
The second to last window. I stopped, checked the camera, and then looked into the glass. The shades were drawn, but there was enough of a break between the flimsy curtains to see the faintest stirrings of what was going on inside. It appeared that I had been correct. It had taken less than five minutes for them to get naked.
I could have gone without seeing the man’s bare ass as I looked in, though. I saw one of the woman’s hands reach around and cup a buttock. I grimaced, chewing my gum harder.
I’m not getting paid enough for this, I thought.
I checked the breezeway again, and when I saw that I was still alone, held the camera up to the window and waited for a shot. Once the couple got into a rhythm, I was actually able to get a few shots. What I was really trying to get was the woman’s face. I saw it a few times as their bodies shifted, particularly when she was on all fours on the edge of the bed. The cop in me also clocked a line of coke on the chipped table in the corner. The deadbeat in me didn’t give a crap.
I checked my shots on the camera and saw that, while I managed to get the woman’s breasts perfectly in two shots, her face was either blemished by the window’s glare or partially
Moments later, the man came back out. He looked to his car and gave a little nod. With that, a curvy woman stepped out of the passenger seat. She held a gaudy-looking umbrella upward to the sprinkling drizzle. As it fanned open, it blocked my only clear shot of her face.
“Damn,” I muttered.
I watched the couple head down the little breezeway that connected the rooms. They stopped at the second-to-last entrance, and the man unlocked the door, letting the woman in first. She closed her umbrella, but I was still unable to see her face. The man entered and closed the door behind him.
I took a small bag from the passenger seat and sat it in my lap. Grabbed my digital camera and powered it up. Cameras had always made sense to me. In fact, photography was one of the few remnants from my old life that I clung to. The simplicity of frame and shoot was somehow comforting.
I also took out a stick of gum. Pushed it into my mouth and started slowly chewing in an effort to bury the need for a drink.
I tried to think of the last time I had taken a woman into a cheap hotel room. It had been during college — easily twenty years ago. Unless things had changed in the realm of social conventions, I was pretty sure there was nothing new to getting laid in a place like this. I doubted they would spend time talking about the weather or pointing out the decorating expertise of the people that had thrown this shabby dive together. I figured that in the minute and a half they had been in the room, they were probably already halfway to oblivion.
I stepped out of the car and took my time walking across the parking lot. I held my Canon Eos close under my leather jacket so it wouldn’t get wet, and I felt the rain, a steady October drizzle, lightly cooling my head. There was something almost pleasant about it. I made a note in my head, trying to put a few items in the POSITIVES column for London. So far, the NEGATIVE column was winning by a long shot.
I made my way to the breezeway and looked around. There was no one else traipsing around the parking lot or the corridor and really, who would? It was1:30 in the afternoon on a wet Wednesday. This realization hi t me hard and made me feel a wave of depression, so familiar since the events six months ago.
I moved along, passing the tiny windows and the doors. I briefly thought of all of the fragments of lives that had taken place behind those doors and windows. Passion, lust, anger, and a healthy dose of deception ; something about it was almost poetic. I let the thought fade out. I did not want to be going down that path, and I was nowhere near a poet.
The second to last window. I stopped, checked the camera, and then looked into the glass. The shades were drawn, but there was enough of a break between the flimsy curtains to see the faintest stirrings of what was going on inside. It appeared that I had been correct. It had taken less than five minutes for them to get naked.
I could have gone without seeing the man’s bare ass as I looked in, though. I saw one of the woman’s hands reach around and cup a buttock. I grimaced, chewing my gum harder.
I’m not getting paid enough for this, I thought.
I checked the breezeway again, and when I saw that I was still alone, held the camera up to the window and waited for a shot. Once the couple got into a rhythm, I was actually able to get a few shots. What I was really trying to get was the woman’s face. I saw it a few times as their bodies shifted, particularly when she was on all fours on the edge of the bed. The cop in me also clocked a line of coke on the chipped table in the corner. The deadbeat in me didn’t give a crap.
I checked my shots on the camera and saw that, while I managed to get the woman’s breasts perfectly in two shots, her face was either blemished by the window’s glare or partially
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