The Ninth Man Read Online Free PDF

here. Did you find Tessie?”
    “Nope, I didn’t get a chance to come back. I got tied up.”
    “So I see from the bags under your eyes. You S-and-M types are all alike.”
    We both laughed, and I reached into my shirt pocket for the Polaroid photo.
    “This is the guy I’m interested in.” I handed the photo to Bud, who reached under the bar for a flashlight to enable him to see. He snapped on the light and let out a long, low whistle.
    “Holy shit!” he said. “No wonder you’re lookin’ for him! If you find him, can I have seconds?”
    I didn’t tell him Bobby McDermott was no longer in any condition to give firsts, let alone seconds.
    Before I had a chance make any reply at all, I felt a dark form beside me and turned to see Cowboy had moved down the bar to look at the picture. In the reflection of Bud’s flashlight, and with my eyes a bit better accustomed to what little light there was in the place, I could see Cowboy was definitely not one of the regulars.
    I momentarily was tempted to say something brilliant, like: “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” But because it was a place like this, I knew good and well what he was doing in it.
    “Lemme see, Bud,” Cowboy said, holding out a large uncallused hand.
    “Recognize him?” I asked Bud, who continued to stare at the photo.
    “I dunno—I haven’t gotten up to the face yet.”
    “I said lemme see, Bud,” Cowboy repeated, hand still calmly extended.
    Bud shot him a dirty look, flicked off the flashlight, and handed him the photo. He tilted it toward the nearest dim light then nodded.
    “Know him?” I asked.
    “Who wants to know?” he replied, not belligerently.
    “ I want to know,” I said. “Didn’t you just hear me ask?”
    “You vice?”
    I pulled out my wallet to show him it had no police badge. He seemed to relax a bit.
    “What’s it worth to you?” he asked in his best hustler voice.
    “Would you believe my undying gratitude?”
    The flicker of a grin crossed his face like summer lightning.
    “What are you looking for him for?”
    “I’m not looking for him,” I said. “I know where he is. I just want to find out some more about him.”
    “Then why don’t you ask him?”
    “I wish I could.”
    Cowboy stared at me.
    “He in trouble?” Again I could feel him tense up.
    “Not anymore,” I said. “He’s dead.”
    “Oh.” The voice was like a little boy’s. When he spoke again, it was neither a little boy’s nor a hardened hustler’s. “Yeah, I know…knew…him.” He gave a long sigh. “Buy me a beer?”
    I have fairly strong moral scruples about buying hustlers drinks, but in Cowboy’s case, I was willing to make an exception. After all, I rationalized, I could write it off my income tax as a business expense, particularly if he could give me some information about Bobby McDermott. And what the hell—he hadn’t asked for champagne.
    I drained my glass, signaled to Bud, and raised two fingers. He nodded and moved off to draw two.
    In the pause, I took stock of Cowboy. There was a lot there to take stock of. Six-three, Levi’s, boots, Levi’s jacket open to the navel, no shirt. Nice chest with just a patch of hair bridging the space between his nicely shaped pecs and trailing down suggestively toward his crotch. A very respectable basket and an ass to match.
    Bud returned with the beers, and Cowboy gestured thanks as he raised his glass and took a long, Adam’s-apple-bobbing drink. Then he set the glass down and pushed his hat to the back of his head, exposing a beautiful head of wavy black hair.
    He hooked his free thumb under his belt and raised one boot to the bar rail. Turning to me, he leaned against the bar on one elbow. This kid had the pose down to a tee. All he needed was a pack of Marlboros.
    He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, tapped one out of the pack with an index finger, and lit up with cupped hands. When he’d done just about everything butch he could think of at the moment,