The Big Sheep Read Online Free PDF Page A

nine-millimeter I kept in the top drawer of my desk, and made my way down the hall toward the lobby. My ability to handle a gun—as well as just about any other weapon—was another reason Keane kept me around. The SIG was my gun of choice; there had been a lot of technological advancements in firearms over the past twenty years, from biometric authentication devices to smart bullets that could go around corners, but for my money nobody in the past hundred years had really improved on the basic idea of making a hunk of metal go really goddamned fast in a straight line.
    Am I paranoid? Maybe a little. But as I mentioned, while the front of our building was technically in LA proper, it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a nice neighborhood. Whoever was knocking on the door was probably just a religious freak or a guy selling vacuum cleaners, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. The knocking became more persistent.
    â€œComing!” I shouted, strolling across the threadbare carpet of the lobby. The whole building was in pretty sad shape, but the lobby was like the waiting room for Hades. The carpet, which must have been hideously ugly even before it faded to a sort of dusty plum color that didn’t match any of the four layers of paint peeling off the walls, was so worn in spots that you had to be careful to lift your feet completely off it or risk tripping on loose fibers. The walls were dotted with vaguely sconcelike light fixtures that required a type of light bulb that was no longer legally available anywhere in North America, and in any case at least two of them had failed catastrophically during a lightning storm at some point, leaving impressive scorch marks on the walls. Minimal sunlight filtered in through small frosted windows on either side of the front door, just enough to give you a good sense of the unrelenting oppressiveness of that room. I swear, you could stand in the middle of that lobby and actually feel your soul being sucked out. I walked briskly.
    The knocking had become a banging. Whoever was out there was really laying into it now. That was either a very desperate vacuum cleaner salesman or a couple of very motivated religious fanatics. Whoever it was, they were going to be disappointed. Both our carpets and our souls were beyond saving.
    â€œLook,” I said, opening the door a crack, holding the nine-millimeter in front of me, “you don’t have to pound the door off its…” I trailed off, having momentarily lost touch with the language center of my brain.
    The girl was gorgeous: flawless brown skin, long wavy black hair, big blue eyes that made you want to dive into one and come out the other. She wore a sleeveless brown T-shirt, a denim skirt, and knee-high brown suede boots that left just enough skin uncovered to give rise to a sudden montage of really bad ideas. Some primordial part of my cerebellum, just above the brain stem, urged me to throw my arms around her waist, toss her over my shoulder, and seek shelter in the nearest cave. Higher brain functions countermanded this order just in time, and I stood there for a moment, awaiting further instructions from my nervous system.
    â€œYou gonna let me in?” she said impatiently, and I realized I had been standing there for a good ten seconds, the door still open.
    â€œOf course!” I managed to say. I opened the door wider and stood to the side as she walked in. I smelled cherries and vanilla.
    I recognized her, of course. Priya Mistry, darling of Hollywood, star of the smash drama DiZzy Girl. She had a decidedly more uptown appearance in person than she did on the show, but there was no mistaking that face. I managed to close the door behind us and smile in what I hoped was a nonthreatening manner.
    â€œAre you him?” she asked.
    â€œHaa?” I said, momentarily baffled. “Oh no,” I managed after a moment. “He’s upstairs.”
    â€œCan I see him?” She was growing