ages.”
I looked him in the eyes, nodded. “So where’s he been?” I asked, holding the plate just out of his reach.
“Falcone’s,” he said, his eyes fixed on the plate. “You know, the strip club on third? I heard he’s there almost every night. Was, I mean.”
I held the plate a few seconds longer, just until I started to enjoy it. Then I handed it back to him, turned away before I could see him start to gorge himself. Suddenly I wanted to get out of that place and breathe some fresh air, or at least what passes for it around here. I pushed back out the kitchen doors and past the barman, keeping my mouth shut as I squeezed by all the customers perched over their groaning plates.
Finally I was outside again. I risked opening my mouth, took a cautious breath in and waited to see if anything came out. My throat caught for a second, and I closed my eyes. There was a noise behind me, but before I could do anything I felt a crack on my skull and after that the lights stayed out for a while.
When I woke up I was in Heaven. Well, maybe not your Heaven but mine: my head was in the lap of a soft, young brunette, her teardrop-shaped face hovering over me. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell rims, which she was holding onto with her right hand to keep them from falling.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“How long was I out?”
She shook her head, leaving a blurry trail that told me I wasn’t quite back in condition. “I don’t know how long you were unconscious before I found you,” she said. “It’s been about ten minutes since I brought you back here.”
Reluctant as I was to leave the nest I had found I drew myself up onto my elbows. She had laid me on a long couch, cracked brown leather patched with electrical tape. All around were shelves full of books, paper and hardcover mixed pell-mell. “Where’s here, exactly?”
“This is my shop, Foy’s Books. I’m Zoe Foy.”
I sat up, groaning as my head protested the move, and extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foy,” I said. “Buddy Sutton. You spend a lot of time dragging drunks out of alleys?”
“But you’re not a drunk,” she said quickly. After a second she took my hand and squeezed it. Her hand was warm. It felt nice. “I mean, you do smell a little like one—but I know the look of the guys that spend all their time at the Jackal’s. I see enough of them, it’s right across the street.”
“So you’re just a good Samaritan.”
Her mouth went tight. “I just—I thought—”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. It felt nice too. “You just get suspicious, in my business, especially after a knock on the head. I shouldn’t snipe at you for doing a good deed.”
“I understand,” she said. She was smiling now, her face sunny again. “So what business is that, exactly?”
“Well—”
A jingle came from the other side of the shelves. “Oh, that’s the door,” she said, standing up. Standing had a good effect on her, especially from my perspective. She held up a finger. “You hang on. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her go around the bookshelf, counted ten and then stood up. As quietly as I could, I moved to the nearest shelf and peered through it. The room was a big one, and probably had first been a warehouse: only the shelves divided it into corridors. They were all used books and shelved without rhyme or reason, mouldy encyclopedias next to last year’s bestsellers. I was just about to sit down again when I heard a scream.
A few quick steps took me to the other side of the bookshelf and down the hall towards the door. Zoe was in front of it, frozen. Past her, standing in the doorway, was someone in a long dark overcoat. Before I could get a look at his face I caught sight of a gun barrel rising up to level with Zoe’s heart. There were still at least ten steps between me and her.
Instead of running, I threw my shoulder into the
I looked him in the eyes, nodded. “So where’s he been?” I asked, holding the plate just out of his reach.
“Falcone’s,” he said, his eyes fixed on the plate. “You know, the strip club on third? I heard he’s there almost every night. Was, I mean.”
I held the plate a few seconds longer, just until I started to enjoy it. Then I handed it back to him, turned away before I could see him start to gorge himself. Suddenly I wanted to get out of that place and breathe some fresh air, or at least what passes for it around here. I pushed back out the kitchen doors and past the barman, keeping my mouth shut as I squeezed by all the customers perched over their groaning plates.
Finally I was outside again. I risked opening my mouth, took a cautious breath in and waited to see if anything came out. My throat caught for a second, and I closed my eyes. There was a noise behind me, but before I could do anything I felt a crack on my skull and after that the lights stayed out for a while.
When I woke up I was in Heaven. Well, maybe not your Heaven but mine: my head was in the lap of a soft, young brunette, her teardrop-shaped face hovering over me. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell rims, which she was holding onto with her right hand to keep them from falling.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“How long was I out?”
She shook her head, leaving a blurry trail that told me I wasn’t quite back in condition. “I don’t know how long you were unconscious before I found you,” she said. “It’s been about ten minutes since I brought you back here.”
Reluctant as I was to leave the nest I had found I drew myself up onto my elbows. She had laid me on a long couch, cracked brown leather patched with electrical tape. All around were shelves full of books, paper and hardcover mixed pell-mell. “Where’s here, exactly?”
“This is my shop, Foy’s Books. I’m Zoe Foy.”
I sat up, groaning as my head protested the move, and extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foy,” I said. “Buddy Sutton. You spend a lot of time dragging drunks out of alleys?”
“But you’re not a drunk,” she said quickly. After a second she took my hand and squeezed it. Her hand was warm. It felt nice. “I mean, you do smell a little like one—but I know the look of the guys that spend all their time at the Jackal’s. I see enough of them, it’s right across the street.”
“So you’re just a good Samaritan.”
Her mouth went tight. “I just—I thought—”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. It felt nice too. “You just get suspicious, in my business, especially after a knock on the head. I shouldn’t snipe at you for doing a good deed.”
“I understand,” she said. She was smiling now, her face sunny again. “So what business is that, exactly?”
“Well—”
A jingle came from the other side of the shelves. “Oh, that’s the door,” she said, standing up. Standing had a good effect on her, especially from my perspective. She held up a finger. “You hang on. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her go around the bookshelf, counted ten and then stood up. As quietly as I could, I moved to the nearest shelf and peered through it. The room was a big one, and probably had first been a warehouse: only the shelves divided it into corridors. They were all used books and shelved without rhyme or reason, mouldy encyclopedias next to last year’s bestsellers. I was just about to sit down again when I heard a scream.
A few quick steps took me to the other side of the bookshelf and down the hall towards the door. Zoe was in front of it, frozen. Past her, standing in the doorway, was someone in a long dark overcoat. Before I could get a look at his face I caught sight of a gun barrel rising up to level with Zoe’s heart. There were still at least ten steps between me and her.
Instead of running, I threw my shoulder into the
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