Down the Darkest Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

despite his disheveled appearance, was a good three inches taller and better built than the scrawny Pete—and hoped this wouldn’t turn into an actual, honest-to-God fight. Rick pulled him in close again, their faces almost touching. Pete could see the vein jutting from Rick’s forehead. Was he on something? Then Rick’s anger turned to surprise.
    Dave.
    “Who the fuck do you think you are, bro?”
    Rick let Pete go, allowing him to back up a few paces and notice that Dave was holding a gun—a Sig Sauer P220, no less—to Rick’s head, his arm stretched up and his wrist tilted down, the casual stance of someone who’s held—and fired—guns before. Pete remembered why he liked Dave so much. Behind the hippie, who-gives-a-shit-let’s-just-smoke-a-bowl veneer was one mean dude. One who had seen his share of scraps and had been down some dangerous parts of Miami. Dave considered himself semiretired, in the sense that he no longer trafficked in the areas that used to be his livelihood—dealing heroin, crack, and lots of weed—and stuck to running the used bookstore his rich parents gave him. But the criminal was there. Always would be.
    “That’s right, bitch,” Dave said, his hippie drawl coating the profanities in a way that made Pete almost crack a smile. “Step back like the stank pussy you are. I can smell it from here.”
    Pete fought back a laugh and averted Rick’s frightened, wide eyes. He waved a hand at Dave. Dave nodded and slid his gun behind his back, holstered on his waistband. He gave Rick a slight shove and walked casually back toward the stack of paperbacks, his eyes still on Rick.
    “You need to calm down,” Pete said. “I can let her know you came by. Maybe she’ll want to talk.”
    “Are you guys fucking nuts? Pointing a gun in broad daylight?”
    “Shut your mouth,” Dave yelled from across the store.
    Pete shrugged in a what-can-I-do? way.
    “Tell her it’s about Alice,” Rick said, dusting himself off, shaken. “Tell her Alice is missing. Maybe dead.”
    “What?” Who the fuck was Alice?
    “She’ll know who I’m talking about,” Rick said.
    Pete tried to form a response, but his thoughts were drowned out by the sound of the Book Bin’s door slamming shut.
    “The hell was that about?” Dave asked as he walked toward the counter.
    “Fuck if I know. You always carry a piece in the store?”
    “Yeah, why not?”
    “I dunno,” Pete said. “Seems a little extreme, don’t you think? We’re in the suburbs.”
    “You never know what’s gonna pop out at you,” Dave said, sliding his fingers through his beard. “Seemed like that dude was pretty pissed at you. Who was that?”
    “Emily’s husband.”
    Dave shook his head. He did not approve.
    “What?” Pete said, sitting back down.
    “That’s what you get for messing with someone’s lady, man,” Dave said. “Don’t dance with an MW.”
    “MW?”
    “Married woman. Muy malo .”
    Pete laughed. “Get a grip, man.”
    “I’m serious, dude,” Dave said, exasperated. “She’s living in your house. Can you blame him for being pissed?”
    “I guess not,” Pete said. “But we’re not together, and she was with me before she was ever with him.”
    “Ah, so that’s it.”
    “What?”
    “You feel like you had dibs.”
    “Grow up.”
    “’S cool, man,” Dave said, scratching his stomach. “You gotta do something with your time, now that you’re not drinking yourself stupid every night.”
    Pete leaned back and opened up his book, but couldn’t bring himself to read. Why had Rick come to see him? Who was Alice? He slid his hand into his front pants pocket and pulled out a business card. It was worn and bent from being carried in whatever pair of jeans he was wearing on a given day. It was the only one he carried. His name was on it, with the words PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR in bold under it, a phone number—his cell—on the left side of the eggshell-white piece of paper. Emily had ordered a box over a year