Lady in Flames Read Online Free PDF Page A

drunks doesn’t respond; his head remains buried in folded arms.
    The other nods a slow yes or no, too inebriated to form much of a reply.
    The barkeep, a solid man wearing a black trucker cap, throws his towel onto the bar and nods to a coworker to cover for him.
    “Where’s Willard?” the rotund man asks no one in particular, scanning the room. After a few seconds without a reply, he turns and marches toward the door. Barging through it as if he meant to rip it from its hinges, he begins to yell. “Willard! Willard! Are you over there?”
    The man continues to the lot next door where Willard’s Auto Body resides.
    I follow behind in his soggy footsteps, silent.
    The bearded, angry fellow stomps to the service door of the now-closed shop. He sees a light in back and proceeds to pound on the door. “Willard! Open up! Open up right now!”
    Thirty seconds of pounding and a man I assume to be Willard opens the door. “What’s going on out here?” He leans against the door frame, lanky and slack jawed.
    “Someone set my Amy’s house on fire. Let’s go on in back. I need to talk to you.” The rotund man hustles Willard back inside.
    Again I follow, intent to learn what will be said. We walk past the lifts in the garage to the back room where there sits a workbench covered in greasy car parts. A kerosene heater burns near a door, cracked for ventilation.
    I’m not the only one listening. What both men are ignorant of is the retired police cruiser parked in the alley behind the shop, and the pudgy form that has crept near the door, nosy about the commotion.
    I maneuver to the back wall and blend half into it, my spectral form filling its fissures. This way I can watch the men in the room as well as the one in the alleyway.
    “What is this all about, Buck?” Willard picks up an oily rag to wipe his hands.
    “Somebody set Amy’s house on fire tonight. It’s gotta be that Johnny Arson. I’m trying to round up my boys but a few of them are soused. I need another set of limbs to go down to his apartment with us and get some answers.”
    “I ain’t getting involved,” Willard says, waving his hands as if he’s freeing himself of the situation. “None of my business…”
    “Damn it, Willard! Are you gonna deny me when you’re in my debt already? You still owe me money from the races.” Buck’s face ripples with an accusing glare, pig eyes bulging.
    Willard sits down behind his bench. “I told you I’d have your money next month.”
    Buck steps to the bench and slaps his meaty palms onto the edge. “You’ll have my money tomorrow if I say so!”
    “You’ve got nothin’ over my head,” Willard hisses, puny mouth clamped tight. “I fixed your van for you. You came crawling to me that night, drunk as a skunk, nowhere else to go. Said you’d done something awful. I helped cover that up!”
    “Shut your mouth, you sonuvabitch. Don’t you utter anything more. You agreed you’d never speak a word of it.”
    “Yeah, well I ain’t cleaning up your messes no more.” Willard shakes a finger. “You killed a man, Buck. Think about that. Don’t go sticking your nose where it don’t belong. You’ve been lucky. Keep me out of your business and maybe you’ll stay that way.”
    Buck burns red. “I can’t believe you’d stoop that low. To bring up the past like that and hold me to it! It was an accident, damn it! Doppler should’ve never been out on that road. Hell, nobody misses that old bag anyway.”
    Outside, the man in the alleyway hides behind a trash barrel. His eyes rip wide at hearing this and he suppresses a giddy murmur. He shifts his weight in near uncontrollable anticipation.
    I turn back to the seething men at the work bench. This is what I needed first-hand, the crime painted in its most raw, enduring form, straight from the offender’s mouth. Now I understand the type of man this Buck is; I see him for what he’s worth.
    Willard reclaims his rag and begins to wipe his hands again,