The Ninth Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

for another minute, I flushed the toilet and returned to the living room. Rholfing was sitting there, drinking coffee and looking regally unconcerned.
    “I suppose you’d like the picture now,” he said.
    “Yeah, that might be a good idea,” I said, lamely—being careful not to sit down again.
    He got up like the czarina rising from her throne and undulated into the bedroom, to return seconds later with a Polaroid picture of a good-looking young guy, totally nude, in what might best be described as a “suggestive pose.” Rholfing hadn’t been kidding when he said Bobby McDermott had certain striking resemblances to a horse.
    “I thought you’d like one that showed off his best features,” Rholfing said. “More coffee?”
    “Uhhh, no, thanks,” I said, forcing myself to stop looking at the photo and putting it in my shirt pocket.
    “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked, coquettishly, at the same time giving a not-too-subtle glance toward the bedroom. This guy apparently had difficulty with the more complex words of the English language, such as no .
    “Ah, no, thanks. I’ve really got to get going. Thanks for the pic—I mean, thanks for the coffee. I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything.” Somehow, I bumbled my way to the door.
    “Do that,” Rholfing said—just a little sarcastically, I thought. And when he closed the door behind me, it was just a little more forcefully than necessary. As a matter of fact, it was just this side of a slam.
    *
    I went home to shower and shave and change clothes , did some laundry, then went to the office and farted around for awhile with a crossword puzzle, hoping to hear from Tim.
    In a way, I suppose I was trying to avoid thinking about just what in hell I’d gotten myself into. What I’d thought would be a quick case-open, case-closed affair looked like it could be something I wasn’t sure I really wanted to get involved in. A simple drug overdose is one thing, suicide another, but murder—make that probably six murders?
    After what seemed like four days, I glanced at my watch and saw it was only two o’clock, so I decided to go back to Hughie’s. Bud had mentioned somebody named Tessie who might have known Bobby. Back when I’d been assuming Bobby had OD’d on drugs, it didn’t really matter who knew him or who didn’t. Now it mattered. Maybe Bud had Tessie’s phone number. Besides, now that I had McDermott’s photo, it might help find out if anyone else there knew him.
    Walking into Hughie’s in the daytime is always like entering a coal mine—and the brighter the day outside, the stronger the contrast. The day’s heat was suddenly replaced by the clammy, stale-beer-smelling dampness of the air conditioning.
    The 25-watt bulbs behind the bar were not materially aided by three or four flickering candles in those God-awful net-stockinged colored bowls set out in the booths along the wall. I was, as usual, temporarily blinded. As I stumbled to the bar, I bumped rather abruptly into a well-rounded ass in tight Levi’s.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled.
    “Twenty-five a feel, mack,” was the gracious reply from somewhere in the darkness beneath what I dimly made out to be a cowboy hat.
    “You take MasterCard?” I asked, and reached for an empty barstool. My eyes were now becoming accustomed to the gloom, and I could see half a dozen forms slouched on various stools along the bar. Most of the forms, when I could make out their faces, I recognized as regulars.
    Bud cut off a muttered conversation with one of them at the far end of the bar, waved, and automatically reached into the cooler for a glass. He pulled me a dark and brought it over. I handed him a wadded bill I’d found that morning at the bottom of my pants pocket.
    “Planning to make a spitball?” he asked as he unwadded the bill. I just grinned.
    “Hey, Bud, remember I was asking you about a guy named Bobby McDermott?”
    “Yeah—but like I said, nobody’s much on names around