The Emerald Lie Read Online Free PDF

truly shocking pictures and the range of reactions runs the gamut of
    Shock
    Through
    Revulsion
To
    Disbelief.
    He wasn’t even in the neighborhood of giving a toss. I had gone there as a vague way of earning some of the accountant’s money and that would be it, in, out, adios. But this prick’s attitude changed all that. Before I could answer, he said,
    “Fellah, I see so many chicks on any given day, it’s like a turkey shoot.”
    I stared at him. Could he have chosen a more inappropriate simile? He moved back behind his desk, then slapped his leg up on the desk, displaying very fancy cowboy boots. I could see the hand stitching, ornate finish from across the room. He said,
    “These here boots, made by hand in Airline, Texas. But that don’t mean diddly to you, right? My point being, small-time huckster like you, you wouldn’t make in a year what I laid out for these babies.”
    I said,
    “You’re correct, I don’t know a whole lot about the Lone Star State save for Shiner Bock and Maker’s Mark, but one of their sayings seems to fit you.”
    He was digging this, having him a whole swell sweet time, asked,
    “Is it what we call a swagger, walking?”
    And he was laughing, not the kind of laugh you’d hear from a person who had much of a relationship to humanity but that cackle that seeps from the bottom of something rotten. I said,
    “All hat and no cattle.”
    Snapped him right back, the dark fire in his eyes again. He snapped,
    “The fuck are you? You’re not the cops, you got any kind of … I … D?”
    Aggression leaking all over his tone. I said,
    “I was going to try concerned citizen but that’s more your letter to the
Irish Times
gig so let’s say I’m the outrider for an expedition force.”
    This seemed to amuse him and he said,
    “Wherever you’re heading with this, I don’t see it ending in Miller time.”
    He gave me a long hard look. The true hard cases don’t do that; by the time you’ve got their attention, you’re already cold. He said,
    “You’re some sort of washed-up cop or army, but from the state of your fucked fingers, your whole …”
    Paused.
    “Ensemble, I’d say at best you’re a poor excuse for a messenger boy.”
    He sat down, shrugged, said,
    “But you need to fuck off now, I’m tired of you.”
    I took a slow appraisal of the office, then settled my eyes on him, said,
    “Past ten years, I’ve met a whole array of sick fucks, crazies, killers, your whole tier of the very shite of society but I’ll give you this. You are the only one that might make it feel personal again.”
    I bade a hearty farewell to the frosty receptionist but she didn’t even deign to raise her head. There was a huge tropical plant in the corner, I managed with difficulty to raise it and then, with more force than I knew I had, I hurled it at the plate glass window, said,
    “Think of it as window dressing.”
    That evening, I was having some quiet time, had walked the dog, who was now curled on the sofa, snoring lightly, all peaceful in his small world. I was watching Billy Bob Thornton in the TV series
Fargo.
Just wonderful, as good as the movie and that’s some claim. An all-time gold gig from Billy Bob. A knock on the door, so light it didn’t stir the dog. I was wearing a loose T with the faded logo
    “
Black Mask
original.”
    And worn to a thread 501s. My feet bare. I opened the door to a fast punch in the face, sent me reeling back, followed by two burly guys in dark clothing. The dog was off the couch and a kick flung him across the room. Without a sound, save
Fargo
muted, I got a systematic beating but all I could focus on was, was the dog all right? After a last kick to the face, one of the guys leaned forward, the smell of curry and tobacco on his breath, and hissed,
    “Who is all cattle now?”
    Would it have ended there? I don’t know, but a shout from the doorway of
    “I called the Guards.”
    Had them leave, without any great haste. Almost relaxed. My neighbor