San Francisco Noir Read Online Free PDF

expensive, particularly in addition to the other work you mentioned.”
    Pilgrim glowered, trying to shush her. He figured Corella had an ear pressed up to the door, trying to hear his business.
    “Expensive is lying here doing nothing. I can’t move. Don’t mean I can’t fight.”
    That night Pilgrim dreamed he had his body back. He and Lorene were in the throes, the way it used to be—give some, not too much, take a little away, then give it back till she’s arching her spine and making that sound that made everything right. Damn near the only good he’d done his whole sorry life, pleasure that woman—that and turn himself into a quadriplegic piggy bank.
    But no sooner did she make that gratified cry in his dream than the whole thing changed. He heard another sound, a low fierce hum, then the deafening broadside slam of the semi ramming his pickup, the fierce growl of the diesel inches from his bleeding face through the shattered glass of his window, the scream of air brakes and metal against metal, then the odd, hissing silence after. His head bobbing atop his twisted spine, body hanging limp in the shoulder harness. The smell of gas and smoldering rubber and that tick-tick-tick from the truck’s radiator that he mistook for dripping blood.
    Raymont Williams, dressed in pleated slacks and a cashmere V-neck, Italian loafers, and silk socks, heard the doorbell ring and glanced down from a second story window. A fluffy little white fella, baggy suit, small hat, stood on the porch. Something wrong with this picture, he thought. White people in the neighborhood didn’t come to visit.
    Raymont lifted the window: “Yeah?”
    The man backed up, gripping his hat so it wouldn’t fall off as he tilted his head back to see who was talking. “Reverend Raymont Williams?”
    No collar, Raymont thought, touching his throat. “You’re who?”
    “Name’s William Montgomery. I live down the block. I received some of your mail. By mistake. The names, I guess.” He tugged on the brim of his puny hat. “Kind of similar in a backwards sort of way.”
    “Shove it through the slot.”
    The man winced. “There’s a bit of a snafu.” He looked at the wad of mail in his hand, like it might catch fire. “One of the letters is certified, I signed by mistake. I don’t know, I didn’t look carefully, I just…” He scrunched up his face. “I called the post office. I have to get your signature, too, next to mine, then take the receipt down to the main office on Evans. It’s a hassle, I realize—”
    “That don’t make sense.”
    “They were very specific. I’m truly sorry, Reverend.”
    The hairs on Raymont’s neck stood up. You mocking me? “Hold on.” He closed the window, walked down the carpeted stairs to the entry. The crystal prisms on the chandelier refracted the sunshine streaming through the fanlight. In the dining room a bouquet of lilies and irises exploded from a crystal vase on the Hepplewhite side table. Lorene had this mania for Waterford lately, in addition to a number of other decorating obsessions. Out of control. They’d need to talk on that.
    He flipped open the mail slot from inside. “Okay, slip it through.”
    The little man obliged. Raymont took the bundle of paper, at which point the voice through the mail slot said, “Reverend Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymond White, a.k.a. Montel Dickson—you’ve been served with a summons and a complaint in accordance with state law and local rules of the California Superior Court. You must appear on the specified date or a default judgment may be filed against you. If you have any questions, you can call the number that appears on the summons.”
    Why you schemey little bug, Raymont thought. He pulled himself up, booming through the door: “How dare you! Coming here, full of hostile intent and subterfuge. I am a man of the cloth. What’s the difficulty, tell me—the difficulty in simply ringing the bell like a decent man with