King City Read Online Free PDF Page A

doors, water‐stained plywood mounted where there had once been glass. Everything was shades of gray, all the color eroded away by time and neglect.
    Homeless men and women huddled in the doorways and alcoves with their belongings in bulging Hefty bags piled high in rusted grocery carts. They glared out at him from the shadows like owls.
    There were still a few businesses in operation on the street, all with barred windows—a barber shop, a mini‐mart, a psychic, a shoe‐repair place, and a check‐cashing operation.
    Three hookers stood listlessly in front of the check‐cashing place, hoping to get a share of somebody’s paycheck before the mini‐mart did. Or maybe they worked for the check casher, who was looking for a way to get some of his cash back before it got too far out the door. Maybe it was both of those things.
    An Escalade, clad in sheets of after‐market chrome, cruised by in the opposite direction, the driver slowing down to get a good look at Wade.
    The driver was a Native American man, maybe in his twenties, wearing a tank top that showed off his prison‐yard muscles and his tats. His eyes had a cold, sharklike flatness that must have taken a lot of practice in front of a mirror to achieve.
    The Escalade moved on and so did Wade.
    The new police substation was on the corner of Division Street and Arness Avenue in a storefront that had most recently been occupied by an X‐rated video business. The sign for “Red Hot XXX‐Treme Video” was still above the door.
    Wade cruised past the two‐story brick building slowly. If he squinted, he could see the words “King City Police Substation,” which had recently been etched in small gold lettering on the glass front door, right above a DVD return slot under the words, in big white letters, “Was It Good for You? Cum Again.”
    He drove around the corner onto Arness.
    Behind the building, a new cyclone fence topped with razor wire enclosed a small parking lot where three dented, scratched, and dirt‐covered Crown Vic black‐and‐white cruisers were parked side by side. There was a pile of broken DVD shelving beside an overflowing Dumpster. Some of it looked burned. A thick chain and huge padlock secured the gate.
    Wade made a U‐turn and pulled up in front of the storefront and behind an old Buick that was molting oxidized paint.
    A pear‐shaped man who looked to be in his fifties emerged from the Buick. He wore a cap from a factory that had closed down fifteen years ago and had a cigar stub in his mouth that looked like he’d been chewing on it just as long. There was a retractable key ring with a few hundred keys on it clipped to his belt, weighing down his pants below his gelatinous belly, which was barely covered by an untucked, oversized aloha shirt.
    Wade got out and met him on the sidewalk.
    “Mr. Claggett? I’m Tom Wade.” He offered his hand, but Claggett didn’t take it.
    “It’s one thing to rent my place to the cops—everybody understands you’ve got to make a buck—but it’s another if they think we’re buddies.”
    Wade looked past Claggett to the street. The Escalade had made a U‐turn and was idling at the next corner, the driver watching them. So were the hookers. Even the homeless people were peering cautiously out of their alcoves.
    “Would you prefer that the police weren’t here?”
    “Doesn’t matter what I think. You’re not staying, anyway,” Claggett said, going to the door. His keys jingled as he walked. “It’s a publicity stunt.”
    “Do you see any reporters around?”
    “It’s safer for them to read the press release than to come down here.” Claggett took his key chain, fumbled around until he found the right key, unlocked the iron grate, folded it aside, then unlocked the door. “Besides, the city only signed a ninety‐day lease. What more do I need to know?”
    “You don’t know me,” Wade said and surveyed his new command.
    The DVD racks were gone, but the walls were decorated with