Angel With a Bullet Read Online Free PDF Page A

pants.
    â€œTo keep the scene fresh,” Frank muses.
    â€œAlso makes time of death more difficult to pinpoint,” I suggest too quickly.
    Frank’s mouth twitches again. “Waking the neighbor with a shotgun blast might help with that.”
    â€œMr. Chino was no fool,” Blymouth pipes up irritably. “The cool air naturally helps to preserve his work. And if you do not possess the olfactory senses to—”
    â€œChrist!” Frank snaps. “This is why I post officers on the Goddamn door.”
    Blymouth gulps.
    â€œDid Chino’s note say how he wanted the canvas cured?” I ask quickly.
    Blymouth nods. “Air dried and then sealed with several coats of high-grade, matte lacquer. I have several artists available who can do the job.”
    â€œThey’ll need to wait.” Frank’s face turns hard. “Right now it’s evidence, and I need you out of here while I do my job.”
    â€œI must protest! I have—”
    â€œProtest all you like. Just do it outside.”
    The beet-faced officer rushes forward in an effort to redeem himself. He clamps a firm hand on Blymouth’s shoulder and yanks him roughly out of the apartment.
    â€œAnd Colin,” Frank yells at the retreating officer.
    The officer turns around, his seasoned face stoic as he holds onto the squirming man.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œBag his cell phone,” Frank says. “I want to see that text.”
    Blymouth opens his mouth to protest, but Colin isn’t going to mess up twice. He drags the art dealer down the stairs.
    â€œYou, too, Dix.” Frank releases an audible sigh. “You’ve seen enough.”
    â€œWell, that’s whacked,” I say cheekily but quickly take the hint when Frank’s mouth fails to twitch.

Three
    I should have headed straight home and crawled back into bed. It was late, I was tired, and Bubbles was likely pining. But that’s one of the troubles with the night crew: we’re not too bright.
    The Dog House is a cramped dungeon of a pub two blocks from the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street. Originally built as a coal cellar and storage for a turn-of-the-century boardinghouse, it was converted into a speakeasy during Prohibition and became an unorthodox street church for hippies in the Sixties.
    Abandoned for decades, it was quietly reopened in the late Eighties as a place for cops and scoundrels to hide from prying eyes. The owner, bouncer, bartender, and occasional bookie is an ex-wrestler who had a slippery headlock on fame in the Seventies as the Biting Bulgarian Bulldog. In the newspaper archives, he was regaled as every wide-eyed kid’s favorite Friday-night villain.
    Ask him about it now and he’ll tell you his loyal fans cheered the loudest when he regularly bit off his opponent’s ear and spat it at the ineffective referee.
    â€œKids back then were less cynical,” he told me once. “None of them questioned how the wrestlers all magically grew their ears back for the next match.”
    When boxer Mike Tyson did it for real in a heavyweight bout against Evander Holyfield, Bulldog shook his head and muttered, “Where’s the magic? Dumb prick.”
    Nowadays Bulldog goes by Bill, but his eyes still dance when an old fan recognizes him and asks for an autograph. He even has a Hasbro action figure of himself in full costume perched on the till.
    After wiping hairy hands on a black apron with the angry green face of the Hulk silk-screened across the front, Bill hands me a sweaty bottle of Warthog Ale and a shot of tequila, slice of lime hanging off the rim. I use the beer to connect a few wet rings on the scarred mahogany of the L-shaped bar before taking a sip.
    â€œYou OK, Dix?” Bill asks. “Kinda quiet.”
    â€œTough gal like me? Couldn’t be better.”
    â€œGot a story?”
    â€œDead artist,” I explain. “Old friend, actually. Blew his fool head off with a