Greely's Cove Read Online Free PDF

of the Cove, no doubt cussing his assistant embalmer with every passing minute and working up a good case of mad to hurl at Mitch when he finally showed up. “’S that what you hear?”
    “That’s what I hear,” said Liquid, “suicide. Artist lady who lived with her weird kid over on Second—ran that little art store next to the Mariners’ Bank. Used to be married to the Trosper boy, Carl.”
    “Matt doesn’t like his employees to talk about the decedents,” said Mitch, downing the last of his drink. “It’s not professional. Just like saying ‘body’ in front of the bereaved isn’t professional. You’re s’posed to say ‘Mr. Smith,’ or ‘Mrs. Hansen,’ but never ‘The Body.’” He thumped the mug down on the bar. “Do me one more time, Liquid. Then I’m out of here, I promise.”
    The barkeep’s smile fell away, and his beefy face hardened. He drew himself up to his full height, which was six-three, and sucked in his gut. Though well over fifty, Liquid Larry was an awesome sight behind his bar, surrounded by sparkling glasses and mugs hung upside down in long racks. Few rowdy patrons ever argued with him if he requested their absence.
    “I’m tryin’ to be reasonable with you, young fella,” he said to Mitch in a low voice. “I’m not throwin’ you out, you understand, but I don’t want you to embarrass yourself, either. Four triple threats is enough booze for anybody.”
    Mitch Nistler chuckled hoarsely and plugged a Pall Mall into his lips. “You of all people should know that I’m not just anybody, ” he said, coughing out smoke. “I’m a pro. I could suck down eight or ten of these things and shave your wife’s snatch with a straight razor, and she’d do nothin’ but smile, smile, smile!”
    “ Now I’m throwin’ you out, Sonny Butch.”
    Liquid Larry didn’t mind rough talk, and God knows he’d heard enough of it through twenty years in the Marine Corps and another fifteen running a blue-collar roadhouse. In fact, he could go toe-to-toe with the raunchiest bos’n and cuss the son of a goatfucker blue. Only one subject was off limits: his family. If you talked about his wife, kids, or mother, you didn’t cuss, a lesson that Mitch Nistler learned the hard way.
    The Old Schooner Motel was rich in middle-class tackiness, but it was also comfortable and quiet. In fact, quiet was not the right word, thought Carl; tomblike was more accurate, which was not surprising in the dead of the off-season. His room had vinyl-covered furniture, ham-handed seascapes on the walls, and fake wood paneling in the kitchenette. But the TV worked well, and everything was spotless, if not slightly antiseptic.
    After a long and languorous shower, he argued with himself about whether he was too hungry to sleep or too tired to eat. He had started the day on Eastern Standard Time and was ending it on Pacific, having gained three hours during the flight from Washington, D.C. In Greely’s Cove it was a few minutes after 7:00 p.m., but Carl’s bioclock insisted it was past ten. He was tired as hell since he had slept only fitfully on the plane, but he was also ravenous: the airline’s food had proved inedible except for a pathetic little bag of cashews that a flight attendant had dropped in his lap between Minneapolis and Billings.
    His gnarling stomach won the argument, so he decided to trot down the street to Bailey’s Seafood Emporium, a rustic establishment founded long before his birth and renowned for its steamed mussels. He threw on a fresh shirt, a gray corduroy sport coat, and his parka, because a glance out the window told him that the rain had resumed with a vengeance.
    “Carl!”
    The voice stopped him as he was about to push through the glass door from the motel lobby into the downpour.
    “Carl Trosper!”
    He turned around and saw a plump, fiery redheaded woman behind the registration desk, not the young, gangly girl who had waited on him when he checked in. This woman had snapping