It's a Crime Read Online Free PDF Page B

Pat.
    “Yeah, she looked like the sort who would have something to do.”
    What did that mean? Pat was the one who was always busy. She looked behind them but couldn’t see Ginny.
    They walked in silence to a bar called Jimmy’s. Lemuel let her go first, so she got the full brunt of the patrons’ skeptical glances. When she hesitated at the first stool, Lemuel parked right there. He placed a couple of bills on the bar and tapped them with his index finger. It occurred to Pat that Ginny had all their money, but it didn’t seem to matter.
    “Where are you from?” he asked, as if trying to determine what drink to order from the information she provided.
    “New Jersey,” said Pat promptly and then wished she’d offered up “Los Angeles,” home of the hard-boiled detective, instead. But Lemuel accepted the state with his imperturbable half smile. Because his lips were usually pulled back in this smile, you didn’t realize at first how full they were. They looked swollen, maybe bruised. His hair was thick and dark.
    “You need a beer,” said Lemuel, fingering the inside of his empty breast pocket. “You don’t have a light, do you?”
    Of course she had matches. At high school, even people who didn’t smoke carried them. Plus they were from the Watering Hole, which was a pretty tough bar for suburban New Jersey. She hadn’t believed it when she’d spotted them on a shelf in the local drugstore. Not that that meant a whole lot here, she realized. Still, it was a shock to see the matchbook, which suddenly seemed so little, in his hands, which were so large. Hair sprouted from the fingers, the skin was pitted, the knuckles raw and red. Oh, to feel that rough grip.
    “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he said with his half smile.
    She was still looking at him expectantly as the bartender put a beer down in front of her.
    “That’s yours,” said Lemuel.
    “I know,” she said, blushing. She made no attempt to lift the mug. “So…you live around here?”
    “I have a place I stay when I’m in town,” he said, downing his shot. “In the Village.”
    “The Village,” she sighed. “That’s great.”
    “So you like mysteries,” he said.
    “Of course I do!” Pat enthused. She was slightly handicapped in that she hadn’t read any of his books yet, but she forged ahead anyway. “It must be great to be a writer. I mean, to think up all these people and watch them track each other down. No one, absolutely no one, is cooler than a private eye. ‘Down these sun-blinded streets,’ right?”
    “How about a private eye writer?” said Lemuel. “How cool would he be?”
    “Even cooler than a private eye!” said Pat. “Really!”
    “You wouldn’t believe the shit I get sometimes,” he said. “One old bag actually called me up to nag at me.”
    This seemed to be the extent of their conversation—Lemuel was already turning away—and the beer really was awful. “You know what I hate,” Pat said quickly. “Clues.”
    “Oh?”
    When he shook another couple of cigarettes loose from his pack, he offered her one, which she accepted. She was lucky Ginny wasn’t here, as this opinion had originally been hers. “I hate alibis, train schedules, floor plans.” Pat frowned, trying to remember. “Slips of the tongue!” That had been Pat’s addition. “Riddles in verse.”
    “You’re a funny girl,” said Lemuel. “What’s your name, again?” And when she gave it to him, he said, “Well, Pat, it’s time to go. How about I drink your beer if you’re not going to?”
    “Oh,” she said, a little crestfallen, fearing the night was about to end. But out on the street he seemed to expect her company. The air was cool, and the buildings were deep in shadow. Curlicues of neon letters were beginning to emerge from the gloom. At the next intersection the sky was thick, dark, and radiant, as if the smog were reflecting the city’s light back upon itself.
    Lemuel stopped in front of a bank of