Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel Read Online Free PDF

took another drag on her cigarette and brushed away the ash that fell on her jeans. Last year, the state legislature had finally gotten around to banning smoking in public accommodations. Nobody drinking in Hopes had the balls to mention it to her.
    Attila the Nun excused herself and got up to pee. I checked out her ass (some habits are hard to break) and noticed the brand name on the back of those jeans: True Religion.

 
    6
    I collapsed into my ergonomically correct office chair, booted my desktop, checked my messages, and found this from Lomax:
    S TILL NO ID ON THE BODY ?
    No, but thanks to Fiona I had enough for an update that might keep him off my back for a while. I opened a new file and banged out a lead:
    Authorities believe the man who was shot to death and thrown from the Cliff Walk in Newport a week ago was Salvatore Maniella, the notorious and reclusive Rhode Island pornographer, but so far they have been unable to positively identify the body.
    A few minutes later, I was putting the final touches on the story when Lomax plopped on a corner of my desk and read over my shoulder.
    “Fiona your source for this?”
    “One of ’em, yeah.”
    “Who else?”
    “Captain Parisi.”
    “How’d you manage that? The tight-lipped SOB never tells us anything.”
    “I just got off the phone with him. When I asked him how the Maniella murder investigation was coming, he said he had no idea what I was talking about. But when I told him I got the ID from a ‘source close to the investigation,’ he let loose with a stream of curses about ‘fucking leaks’ and hung up.”
    “Good enough for me. Listen, you got plans for tonight?”
    “I do.” But I really didn’t.
    “Cancel them. Todd Lewan called in sick, so I need you to cover the city planning commission again.”
    Aw, crap. I checked my watch. Those meetings started at eight o’clock. If I hurried, there was still time to visit my bookie.
    *   *   *
    I shoved open the door to the little variety store on Hope Street and heard a familiar ding. Ever since I was a kid, that old brass bell had announced my visits to the storekeep, my old friend Dominic “Whoosh” Zerilli. For most of those years, it had dangled over a door on Doyle Avenue. The bell was one of the things Whoosh had salvaged after the arson there last year.
    Teresa, who worked the register on weeknights, was hunched over the glass candy counter, studying the front page of the National Enquirer . Judging by her furrowed brow, it was hard going. I leaned down and plucked out her iPod earphones.
    “And they say that young people don’t read newspapers.”
    “Hi, Mulligan.”
    “How are you, Teresa?”
    “I’m bored.”
    “Of course you are. It’s the universal teenage affliction.”
    “Finally ready to take me on that date?”
    “Soon as you grow up.”
    “But I turned eighteen last week!”
    I muffled a laugh. She pouted.
    “So are you gonna buy something or what?”
    “Just came by to see the old man.”
    She rolled her eyes. “He’s in the back.”
    I strolled down a narrow grocery aisle. To my right, Ding Dongs, Twinkies, Fruit Pies, Honey Buns, and Devil Dogs. To my left, a rack of soft porn magazines with names like Only 18, Black Booty, and Juggs . Just ahead, coolers stocked with Yoo-hoo, Coca-Cola, Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and twelve brands of cheap American beer. The illegal tax-stamp-free cigarettes were kept out of sight behind the counter.
    At the end of the aisle, I climbed a short flight of wooden stairs and knocked on a reinforced steel door. When the dead bolt snicked open, I turned the knob, stepped into Zerilli’s private sanctum, and was greeted with a low woof.
    “He won’t hurt you none,” Zerilli said. “He’s fuckin’ harmless.”
    “Where’d you get him?”
    “The pound.”
    “Got a name for him yet?”
    “Calling him Shortstop.”
    “How come?”
    “’Cause Centerfielder’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”
    Shortstop got up from his spot in the