Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

preparation I walk the entire floor from the opposite direction, taking note of possible hiding spots, distractions, and melee weapons in case things go south. Once it’s all committed to memory, I look for the meeting spot. I find it, pass it, and ease myself through the fifth door on the left. The party starts in two hours, and my surprises aren’t going to set themselves up.
    I’d prefer going full surround sound, but I don’t have time to prep two rooms. One will have to do. I slip on my miner’s light and get to work.
    Twenty minutes in and I feel it: someone else is here. Maybe not on this floor, but definitely in the building, unless my spider-sense is picking up a butt-load of rats.
    Side note: Did you know that a ‘butt’ is an actual unit of measure for wine or whiskey? True story. It’s one hundred twenty-six gallons, according to the American system, or one hundred eight if you’re Imperially minded. British Imperial, not Star Wars Imperial. Just FYI. Toss that out at your next party and watch the panties drop. Trust me.
    Okay, that creak definitely wasn’t from the building settling. Nor that one. Those would be footsteps. Someone’s coming down the hall. Damn it. It’s way too early for the exchange, so either a hobo is looking for a new corner to shit in, or I have company of the less-than-wanted variety.
    Hang on—do people still call them hobos? Do they still hop on rail cars and carry that stick with the little red handkerchief at the end of it full of who-fucking-cares, or is that all stored in an internet cloud now, along with everyone’s porn collection and food selfies?
    Did I mention I’m not too fond of rats?
    The sounds stop outside my door. Ha. Mine , like I own the place. Sure, legally I have no jurisdictional claim, but damn it, I was here first. Go find your own hiding spot, you bastard.
    The door’s kicked open and a man enters, dark as the night that’s coming on fast. Tall, like me, but fat, not like me. Well, not fat. Let’s go with muscled , also not like me. Not that I’m a goo-bag. I just don’t, you know, work out that often.
    Don’t judge me. I can kick your ass at Donkey Kong.
    There’s no place to hide, and I’ve got no time to build one. I’m not fucking MacGyver here. Although, if my life story were to be silver screen-ified, I could do worse than having Richard Dean Anderson play me. I mean, we look nothing alike, but he’s a pretty solid actor, and I think he could pull it off.
    “Room for one more?” the man asks, aiming a flashlight and a gun at me.
    Fuck.
    I really hate guns.

 
    6
    D ude’s got a gun, while I’ve got a screwdriver and a look of utter stupidity underneath a miner’s light not even strong enough to make the guy squint, much less blind him. Want to place bets on who has the upper hand?
    Here’s a hint: it’s a trick question.
    “Don’t let me interrupt you,” the guy says. His voice is Barry White smooth, but not as deep. And a touch too playful for someone holding a weapon. “You look like you’re in the middle of something important.”
    I look around the dust-caked room and shrug. “Customer asked for high-speed internet. Figured I’d start in the solarium.”
    The man laughs. That’s a good sign.
    He kicks the door closed with the heel of a red Converse All Star, leaning against the jamb and letting the gun hang casually by his side. He keeps the flashlight raised, however, kindly aiming it at my chest so he doesn’t scorch my retinas with its LED laser vision.
    I need to get me one of those. This miner’s light isn’t worth shit.
    Between the darkness swallowing him and the flashlight limiting my field of vision, I can’t see his face clearly, but his teeth are white against a sea of black. His skin is dark and blends almost perfectly with the shadows; his silhouette covers a good chunk of the door. He’s in black jeans and a dark-colored long-sleeved shirt, untucked and rolled to the right below the elbows. I get