Hard Fall: A gripping, noir detective thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries, Book 1) by P.T. Reade Page B
Authors: P.T. Reade
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covered by an elbow, her own hair, or the sheets that her head had been pushed into.
Sighing, I pocketed the camera. Really, I had been sure it would come to this. I wasn’t surprised, just…defeated.
Resigned, I walked over to the door and steadied myself for a moment. As I stood there, I could hear the woman moaning in ecstasy on the other side. She was either really enjoying it or was going above and beyond to make the man think she was really enjoying it.
A healthy dose of deception.
I took a breath, then lifted my leg. With a hard and practiced kick that I had used many times in my career in New York, I attacked the door. It flew open easily enough, the chain flying halfway across the room and the frame cracking almost all the way down. I absently wondered if the hourly rate would pay for the damage to the frame.
The man and the woman both yelled at the commotion. Comically, though, it had not startled them enough to disengage themselves from one another. I grinned sarcastically at them and then took out my camera.
Before the woman had a chance to try to hide her nakedness or the man could say a single word to me, I brought the camera up.
“Say seedy motel room,” I said.
It took two clicks for them to understand what was going on. The woman pushed the man off of her and came to the edge of the bed. All of her modesty was forgotten as she looked at me with pleading eyes that were still half-dazed with the cocktail of hormones and drugs running through her body.
“No,” she said. “Please.”
I checked the pictures and saw that I had more than enough now.
“Thanks,” I said. “As you were,” I added as I left I placed the “please make up room” card on the door handle.
I then turned my back and headed towards the parking lot. I heard the man yelling after me. I doubted he would pursue. He looked overweight and not exactly the confrontational type, more a soft middle manager with an easy office job. Besides, he was naked. Not many folks were eager to come running across a rain-slicked parking lot with no clothes on.
I got back to my car and had cranked the engine to life by the time to the woman had come to the door, wrapped in a sheet. She was screaming for me to stop, but I paid her little attention. She was pretty — about 150 lbs, long blonde hair, and breasts too perfect to be real. I wondered what had driven her to this, and beyond that, I pitied the man she was with and more so the man I would be meeting in about an hour.
As I pulled out of the lot, I looked back and saw her staring at me, crying in the rain. The man stood behind her like some idiot sentinel.
Hearts were going to be broken over this, but that wasn’t my problem. I was already thinking about how I would spend the money that was coming to me. I’d have it within two hours and in three, I’d be at The King’s Head down the street.
I looked back in my rearview, but the hotel parking lot was out of sight. All that remained was the dreary East London suburb… and pain. I needed a drink, but one man needed these photographs more.
TWO
Anthony Taylor was broken.
Forty minutes later, I was sitting in my cramped little office space that doubled as my apartment looking across the cluttered desk at the man I had just destroyed. He was quiet, sitting in my guest chair and looking up at the ceiling as if he were waiting for it to mercifully collapse on top of him. I followed his gaze, but for a different reason. There were water stains along the ceiling and a few places where fissures ran like stray hairs along half of the ceiling. The office was a dump (as reflected in the cheap rent), but it contained all the equipment I needed for my work.
When Anthony started to cry, I wasn’t surprised. I was sure he would. Even though he was a well-to-do stockbroker with a sharp suit and more money in his savings account than I would ever see in my entire life,
Sighing, I pocketed the camera. Really, I had been sure it would come to this. I wasn’t surprised, just…defeated.
Resigned, I walked over to the door and steadied myself for a moment. As I stood there, I could hear the woman moaning in ecstasy on the other side. She was either really enjoying it or was going above and beyond to make the man think she was really enjoying it.
A healthy dose of deception.
I took a breath, then lifted my leg. With a hard and practiced kick that I had used many times in my career in New York, I attacked the door. It flew open easily enough, the chain flying halfway across the room and the frame cracking almost all the way down. I absently wondered if the hourly rate would pay for the damage to the frame.
The man and the woman both yelled at the commotion. Comically, though, it had not startled them enough to disengage themselves from one another. I grinned sarcastically at them and then took out my camera.
Before the woman had a chance to try to hide her nakedness or the man could say a single word to me, I brought the camera up.
“Say seedy motel room,” I said.
It took two clicks for them to understand what was going on. The woman pushed the man off of her and came to the edge of the bed. All of her modesty was forgotten as she looked at me with pleading eyes that were still half-dazed with the cocktail of hormones and drugs running through her body.
“No,” she said. “Please.”
I checked the pictures and saw that I had more than enough now.
“Thanks,” I said. “As you were,” I added as I left I placed the “please make up room” card on the door handle.
I then turned my back and headed towards the parking lot. I heard the man yelling after me. I doubted he would pursue. He looked overweight and not exactly the confrontational type, more a soft middle manager with an easy office job. Besides, he was naked. Not many folks were eager to come running across a rain-slicked parking lot with no clothes on.
I got back to my car and had cranked the engine to life by the time to the woman had come to the door, wrapped in a sheet. She was screaming for me to stop, but I paid her little attention. She was pretty — about 150 lbs, long blonde hair, and breasts too perfect to be real. I wondered what had driven her to this, and beyond that, I pitied the man she was with and more so the man I would be meeting in about an hour.
As I pulled out of the lot, I looked back and saw her staring at me, crying in the rain. The man stood behind her like some idiot sentinel.
Hearts were going to be broken over this, but that wasn’t my problem. I was already thinking about how I would spend the money that was coming to me. I’d have it within two hours and in three, I’d be at The King’s Head down the street.
I looked back in my rearview, but the hotel parking lot was out of sight. All that remained was the dreary East London suburb… and pain. I needed a drink, but one man needed these photographs more.
TWO
Anthony Taylor was broken.
Forty minutes later, I was sitting in my cramped little office space that doubled as my apartment looking across the cluttered desk at the man I had just destroyed. He was quiet, sitting in my guest chair and looking up at the ceiling as if he were waiting for it to mercifully collapse on top of him. I followed his gaze, but for a different reason. There were water stains along the ceiling and a few places where fissures ran like stray hairs along half of the ceiling. The office was a dump (as reflected in the cheap rent), but it contained all the equipment I needed for my work.
When Anthony started to cry, I wasn’t surprised. I was sure he would. Even though he was a well-to-do stockbroker with a sharp suit and more money in his savings account than I would ever see in my entire life,
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