Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

later, one a partner in a private investigation agency, the other an up-and-coming sales rep at the S.F. Design Center, wearing conservative business outfits and sipping mineral water and white winespritzers in a crowd of mostly white establishment types in the South Park Café. Whoo! Sometimes she could hardly believe it herself, all the big jumps and sharp-angle turns in her life . . .
    “And I wish neither of us was,” Vonda said.
    “Was what?”
    “In love. Ben Sherman, my God, of all the guys in the world.”
    “Why? What’s wrong with him?”
    “He’s white,” Vonda said.
    Tamara stopped being bored. “Uh-oh.”
    “That’s not all. He’s more than just white.”
    “How can he be more than just white?”
    “He’s Jewish, too,” Vonda said.
    “. . . Damn, girl!”
    “I know, I know. That’s why I wanted to get together tonight, I had to talk to somebody about this and you’re the only one I can tell. I’ve never been with a white guy before, you know that, it’s never been my thing. And you know how my people feel about the interracial thing. Alton’ll go ballistic when he finds out.”
    “He doesn’t have to find out.” Alton was her brother, a head case who’d never outgrown his hatred of Whitey. “If you don’t see this Ben Sherman again.”
    “I don’t think I can do that, just blow him off. I really do love him, Tam.”
    “Great sex isn’t love. You’ve only known the guy two weeks.”
    “It’s not just physical and it doesn’t matter how long I’ve known him. You’ve been there, you understand what I’m saying. Same feelings you had for Horace right from the first.”
    Horace. Let’s not get started on Horace.
    “What am I gonna do?” Vonda said.
    “Got to be your decision, nobody else’s. Yours and Ben’s. What’s he say about it?”
    “He says it doesn’t matter how other people feel, it only matters how we feel about each other.”
    “Yeah, well, he’s right. But not a hundred percent right.”
    “I know it.”
    “Still got to do what your heart and your gut tell you to.”
    “What would
you
do? I mean, suppose Horace was white.
And
Jewish.”
    Horace again. “Well, he’s not.”
    “Come on, Tam. Suppose he was. What would you do?”
    “I don’t know,” Tamara said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
    E astbound traffic on the Bay Bridge was still moderately heavy, even though it was nearly seven o’clock when Tamara drove up the ramp and joined the stream. The westbound upper deck and the bridge railings and girders created a tunnel effect that magnified car and tire sounds into a steady shushing hum. After a while it seemed almost like a whispering voice.
    Saying Horace, Horace, Horace.
    Get a grip, she thought. She would have turned on the radio and slipped in a CD, but there was something wrong with the volume control—you couldn’t turn it up past a low hum not much different from the one outside. Damn thing had worked fine before he left. Figured. His car. Ten-year-old Ford hatchback that he’d left with her because he hadn’t wanted to chance driving it all the way to Philadelphia in the middle of winter. Maybe it missed him too. Yeah, or it was just a sign of things going wrong, screwing up.
    Vonda wasn’t the only one with a screwed-up love life. All God’s chillun got troubles and love troubles were high on the list. You could empathize with other people’s, but you couldn’t get too caught up in them when you had your own to deal with. Couldn’t give somebody else advice when you couldn’t advise yourself.
    Three and a half months now since Horace had left for Philly. Got his gig with the philharmonic back there, second seat cello, doing fine. Living with one of the other black men on the orchestra, a violinist named Cedric. Settled in. Just as she was settled in: agency partnership, new offices, expanding caseload and all the details and decisions that were part of the package. She wasn’t going anywhere for a long time,