Fala Factor Read Online Free PDF

up out there,” came a shrill woman’s voice. “Shut up. Shut up. I’m not opening up for you, Leonard.”
    â€œMy name’s not Leonard,” I shouted. “It’s Peters. I’m looking for Jane Poslik. I’ve got to talk to her.”
    â€œYou’re not Leonard?” came the shrill voice.
    â€œI’m not Leonard.”
    â€œYou’re not from Leonard?” she tried.
    â€œI’m from Hollywood,” I said patiently. “I’m looking for Jane Poslik. She’s not home.”
    â€œYou’re telling me?” cackled Molly Garnet.
    â€œWhere is she?” I tried.
    â€œShe’s a cuckoo,” came a cackle, which I think was a laugh.
    â€œI’m interested more in where she is than what she is,” I shouted.
    â€œShe thinks someone is after her,” came the cackle voice. “You seen her? No one would be after crazy Jane, I can tell you. Men used to be after me though.”
    â€œI’m sure,” I said to the door. “You have any idea where I might find her?”
    â€œYou sure you’re not Leonard?”
    â€œCross my heart,” I said. “Jane Poslik, where might I find her?”
    Molly Garnett went silent and I turned from the door. Jane Poslik would wait. It was on to Dr. Olson, but first I’d make that trip to see Phil and find out what he wanted.

T he second-floor squadroom of the Wilshire District police station was unusually quiet for a Friday afternoon. On the way there I had stopped for a Taco and Pepsi Victory Special at Paco’s On Pico. Sergeant Veldu, the old guy on the front desk, had waved me in with a beefy hand and told me to look out for Cawelti, who was in and in a bad mood. I had known Sergeant John Cawelti for two years, since he first came to the Wilshire with his hair parted down the middle like a bar-keep and his fists permanently clenched. We had not hit it off well. A clash of personalities. Two spirits destined to ignite. I had once suggested, in his presence, that the Los Angeles police trade him to the Germans for an old pair of Goering’s underwear. It had not pleased my enemy.
    So I pushed open the door of the squadroom on the second floor feeling the itch of a good insult creeping into my mind. I approached the desk where Cawelti was hissing through his teeth at a Mexican guy covered with dark hair and two days of beard. The Mexican guy was nodding yes to everything. He was so skinny that each nod of his head threatened to knock him off balance. I considered pausing to warn him about the floor of the squadroom. One could get lost on that floor in the generations of accumulated food, tobacco, and human body fluids ranging from blood to urine. Some of the former was mine. Cleaning up amounted to nothing more than keeping the dirt-black wooden floor from becoming unpassable.
    â€œTop of the morning, John,” I heard myself say as I passed Cawelti’s desk.
    Cawelti’s answer was a low grunt and the sudden swing of the bound notebook in his hand, which banged against the cheek of the Mexican, who crumpled in front of me on the filthy floor.
    â€œHey,” I said, jumping out of the way. “I can make a citizen’s arrest on this one. Littering, illegal use of a concealed Mexican junkie, assault with a deadly alien.”
    Cawelti stood up, his suit dark and neat, his face turning a pocked red. There were a few other detectives and one uniformed guy making coffee in the corner. They didn’t bother to watch our little drama. Neither did the Negro kid handcuffed to the waiting bench about ten feet away from us. He was doing his best to pretend that he hadn’t seen the whole thing and hoping that he wasn’t going to be questioned by Cawelti.
    I faced Cawelti as I knelt down to help the Mexican guy up. The Mexican smelled like vomit, and Cawelti was grinning.
    â€œ Gracias ,” the Mexican said dizzily.
    â€œI’d stay down there if I were