Ask the Dice Read Online Free PDF

best, and its teardrop-sized slug pinballed inside the victim's cranium. Some clandestine bastard—my pile of blue chips had gone on Mr. Ogg's square—knew my MO. He'd copied it to set me up for her cold-blooded murder.
    I veered off the main drag, prowling down a gravel side lane and saw the Vietnamese delicatessen and Nigerian tune up garage had closed since my last visit. Damn lousy economy. Next up, the auto upholstery shop sported an Art Deco theme—splashy reds, yellows, and blues—and I docked in its shade. At the sight of my old hanging post, my nerves lost some of their jitters since I'd shared lots of hearty laughs inside where I ambled through the door.
    The neat's-foot oil used for leather treatment was the pervasive odor. My shoes squished over the tufts of high-density, yellow foam strewn over the buff concrete floor. The nicotine coat on the white paint gave the sheet metal walls and ceiling a jaundiced tint. The 16-foot work bench held a jumble of dowel rods, glue tubes, wooden mallets, and odd carpet remnants. A toolbox rolled off to the side brimmed over with staple lifters, magnetized tack hammers, gooseneck webbing stretchers, and I don't know what all tools. I'd watched Esquire use the curved and straight needles to sew on the replacement upholstery by hand.
    "Tommy Mack, I didn't hear you come in, sweetheart."
    Turning, I chuckled at the salutation. Esquire (he went by just the single name a la Bono, Shaq, Beyonce, or most notably, Oprah) never physically changed. Swearing he was of Castilian lineage, he looked ripped on steroids, but he also swore he only ingested multi-vitamins, raw eggs, and wheat germ. I was a dolt at guessing weights and heights, but I'd always tap him—like now—to be my wingman.
    We'd palled around since Old Yvor High, and then in his early 20s, Esquire had taken it into his head that he was a gay man. Don't ask me why. I just don't know. Perhaps the closet had grown too small for his physical bulk. His coming out was fine by me as long as he bore in mind that I flew straight as an arrow. He did, and our friendship hadn't taken a dent.
    "Where have you been lately?" he asked me.
    I shrugged a shoulder. "Taking care of business. What else?"
    "Is that the secret business I shouldn't delve into?"
    Right off, I regretted broaching the old topic. "Yes, it is."
    He set the magnetized tack hammer on the work bench. His face lost its humor lines. He stared at me slit-eyed and grim-jawed while he torched a cigarette. The ubiquitous Blue Castle , I saw. "You know that I know what your actual business is, right?"
    "Uh-huh, but I'll never say it aloud. Such an admission will bring me major repercussions."
    He sent a nifty smoke ring wafting toward the ceiling, then smiled. "Did you sign a confidentiality waiver?"
    "You can see it that way."
    "Okay, what's happening?"
    I hesitated, not because he wasn't a solid enough friend, but I'd just told him I didn't want to discuss my job with him. What the hell? I needed his help, so it was unavoidable. "Some chump has framed me for killing a lady."
    His hand almost reaching his lips for a second puff didn't make it, and he lowered the smoldering Blue Castle . "Who got it?"
    "Do you remember my employer—Watson Ogg?"
    "As little as possible."
    "I don't blame you there. Well, earlier this morning I found his niece Gwen in her townhouse's bedroom. She'd been shot dead from a pair of .22 slugs behind her ear."
    "That's the fatal dose of lead poisoning."
    I didn't react to his wisecrack. "Her conniving killer fixed the scene to point at me as the triggerman."
    "All right, simmer down. Maybe it's not as bad as you think. Go back to square one. Had her door or windows been pried open?"
    My head wagged. "No, the door wasn't locked."
    "So either her killer loided the lock, or she knew him to let into her townhouse." After discarding his Blue Castle to mash it underfoot, Esquire looked at his cell phone to get the time. "Why don't you let me finish up