It Takes Two Read Online Free PDF Page A

was nodding. “So you might want to go a little bit easy, Mr. Wright,” he advised, keeping his voice low. “Unlatch those cuffs soon as she quiets down some. If you don’t mind my saying so. Because Miss Willene and her mama, they know people. They know everybody.”
    “Unless I miss my guess,” Doc added quietly, “that’s her husband Hillard Norris in there with half his face shot off.”
    “Double fuck,” Bud muttered. “Destroying evidence could just be the start.”
    Brushing his hand across his eyes again, Bud walked back to the Jeep and stopped beside me. In the distance, coming from downtown, I could hear sirens. Reports of more shots at the Royal Plaza Motor Lodge had been called in.
    Carefully running a forefinger up the metal edge of the shattered windshield, Bud murmured, “Maybe you could just take a walk.” His hand was shaking and he wasn’t looking at me. “You could catch a ride if you get going pretty quick. Ain’t gonna be no time for breakfast.”
    “Game’s just begun,” I answered. “Your old coach doesn’t mind sticking around for all nine innings.”
    My argument went nowhere. He looked at me funny, as if to say that private jokes and private names didn’t belong here. “I shouldn’t of brought you here in the first place, Dan, and come up on a crazy woman, gunfire and all.” Blinking to emphasize the point, he added, “But from here on, you’d just be in the way.”
    When I started to say something else, he shook his head. “Fact is,” he said, “you wasn’t even here. Now take a walk.” Cocking the thumb of his balled fist toward the highway, he murmured, “This is my job. I got to get statements. It’s gonna be cats and rats for the rest of the afternoon.”
    Though his determined face seemed stuck in neutral, he suddenly brought his hand up, saluted me smartly and threw me a rough grin. “It ought to be routine from here on, Lieutenant. Some kind of crime of passion, looks like. So don’t worry. Damned glad you didn’t get hurt or nothin’. Now scoot.”
    Returning his salute, I turned and marched off down the side street.
    I ate breakfast back at the hotel.
     

And Grab Your Socks
     
     
     
    Emma Mae Bellweather, the hotel’s big-bosomed boat driver, handed me two telegrams and a housekeeping problem before I’d half finished my delayed Sunday breakfast.
    “These wires is marked urgent,” she said, thrusting the envelopes forward with one plump hand while shading her tortoiseshell glasses with the other. “Been looking all over the goddamn base for you.”
    Light-headed and positively famished, I’d settled down at a table near the pool and told the waiter to bring whatever was quickest. Though I’d thought about telling Emma Mae this was my day off, I just smiled and stirred my coffee. We both knew it would be a waste of breath.
    Emma Mae was a full-figured girl with a sweet, bovine face and a tongue that could etch glass. A former motor-pool mechanic, she swore more often and more colorfully than most chief petty officers. “Fucking fishing boat,” she said, emphasizing the words by slapping bits of sea salt off her faded jacket. “Tub’s been leaking like a pair of Cuban heels, boss. We caulked her again, though, so she’s tighter than a nun’s twat at Christmas time. Everything’s under control. Strictly SOP.”
    SOP, or “Standard Operating Procedure” in military parlance, led directly to what I privately thought of as MSP— “Manager’s Shit Patrol.”
    “But that’s only part of my problem, boss,” she continued, sinking into the chair opposite me. “Because I got another fuck-up situation that’s beating me all to hell.” Reaching into the basket of sweet rolls, she explained. “You know, we got two VIP guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Mayson.”
    “Yes, I’ve met the Maysons,” I told her. “They’re staying in a seventh-floor suite and paying top dollar.”
    Emma Mae explained that the Maysons had come to her a couple of days