The Bad Kitty Lounge Read Online Free PDF Page B

neighborly fellowship for me this morning.
    After dropping off Jason at school, I drove downtown to my office on South Wabash. My office was on the eighth floor of an eight-story building, the only office on a floor occupied by a secretarial school. The school taught inner-city women who’d received federal education grants or state assistance to get off welfare. It took the government checks, gave the women a few lessons on a PC, then kicked them out the door back to the streets.
    I parked in the alley next to the building, bought a newspaper out of a box, and went inside. The two guys who’d pulleda pistol on me in front of my house were standing next to the elevator. They were good-looking guys, one in his young twenties, the other a few years older. The younger one had three or four inches on me. I had an inch on the other one, the one who’d waved the nine-millimeter pistol at me. The tall one carried a knapsack.
    I pulled out my Glock, nodded to them.
    When the elevator came they stepped in and stood on either side of me. We rode up past the third floor in silence. Then I said, “You guys got names?”
    â€œRobert,” said the tall one.
    â€œJarik,” said the other.
    â€œMy name’s Joe Koz—”
    â€œWe know who you are,” said the tall one.
    â€œOf course you do.”
    We got off at the eighth. The secretarial school was between classes, and women filled the corridor, so I held my gun close. The women gave Robert and Jarik eyes that they’d never given me. Corrine used to tell me I looked like Lech Walesa from the Solidarity days but with abs and forget the moustache. Whatever I looked like, I didn’t get the doe eyes that these guys got.
    At the end of the corridor I unlocked my door and let us into my office. The single window looked east over the El tracks and, through a gap between the opposing buildings, toward Lake Michigan. The view made up for the cheap furniture. I went to the coffeemaker and made a point of taking my time about getting it started, then went around to the other side of my desk and sat down. I put my Glock on the desk to remind them that they should act nice.
    The one who called himself Robert unzipped the top of theknapsack and removed a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills wrapped with a gold elastic band. He set it on the desk and we all looked at it as if it might get up and do a little dance. It wasn’t the biggest stack of money I’d ever seen but it was big enough to interest me.
    â€œThat’s for you to stop investigating Judy Terrano’s death,” Robert said.
    The money surprised me about as much as the nine-millimeter they’d pointed at me. So I got up and stuck a coffee cup under the trickling coffeemaker spout and then went back to my desk. I didn’t offer Robert and Jarik a cup.
    I said, “I’m not investigating Judy Terrano’s death.”
    â€œRight,” said Robert. “Three thousand should help you remember that.”
    â€œWhat do you care about her?”
    They exchanged glances. “Does it matter?” Robert asked.
    â€œProbably. She seems to have had friends in a lot of places. I take it you know I was there yesterday.”
    Jarik laughed. “Yeah, the TV’s been showing your ugly face night and day.”
    Robert smiled. “We’re impressed by how you do business.”
    â€œWhat do you know about how I do business?”
    â€œWe know what you did to the TV vans.”
    â€œI didn’t do anything to the vans!”
    They grinned at each other.
    I said, “What’s it matter if I investigate Sister Terrano? The cops are all over this.”
    â€œThey have the guy with the bullet in his face. They’re not investigating anything.”
    â€œGreg Samuelson. Do
you
think he did it?”
    Robert waved that off. “’Course not. If he’s got a gun—andwe know he’s got a gun—why strangle her? Why not shoot