The Snake Tattoo Read Online Free PDF Page A

time.
    â€œNo, it’s not that. Really.” He stared around the cab some more, not looking at the blanket. “Well, I don’t know. Look, maybe if there’s a police station near here … Well, at least I could call somebody to come and get me.”
    â€œThere’s a station,” I said. “Maybe you should tell the cops about your wallet.”
    I started driving toward New Sudbury Street. It was a hell of a lot closer than Lincoln.
    The kid spoke when we were almost there. “Do you think the police could help if it’s, uh, personal? Like somebody I need to find, somebody missing, a friend …”
    â€œA friend stole your wallet?”
    â€œI think I, uh, I must have dropped it or something,” he said. “Yeah, while I was standing on the corner, it must have just dropped out of …”
    While he babbled, I took a card from my purse and stuck it in the tray in the dividing shield. I had to tap on the shield to get him to pick it up. He was still patting at his clothes in disbelief.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he said when he’d read the card at least twice. I could see his eyes move in the mirror.
    â€œWhat it says. I’m an investigator. If the police can’t find your friend, maybe I can. The cops have lots of missing people to look for. I specialize.”
    He studied the card and me. I tried to look sober and responsible.
    I stopped in front of the police station. “Ask for Detective Royce,” I said. “And if they don’t turn up anything, my number’s on the card.”
    He sat there shivering for a while, then he said he was sorry he couldn’t pay me. He asked what the fare was. I read him the meter, and he said he would mail me the $3.55, plus tip. He opened the door.
    â€œDo you have a dime so you can call home?” I asked. “Get somebody to pick you up?”
    He just sat there with the door open. Red-eyed. He reminded me of a boy I’d had a crush on in the tenth grade. What was his name? Doug somebody?
    I reached in my purse and pulled out a five, passed it through the hatch.
    â€œHey,” he said.
    â€œAdd it to what you already owe me,” I said. “They’ve got a sandwich machine.”
    â€œI’m hungry,” he said like he’d just realized it. He held the bill up and smiled, a flash of nice white teeth. Even teeth, like you get from wearing braces for years. “Thanks a lot.”
    â€œDon’t drink the coffee and you’ll be fine,” I said.
    Then he disappeared in the gloom.

CHAPTER 3
    I wasted another two hours in the Zone—watching Renney’s place, cruising the bus station, checking Renney’s flat again—without catching so much as a glimpse of Janine. Any one of twenty shivering streetwalkers, high-booted against the cold, could have sported a python underneath her opaque pantyhose. So I quit, returned the cab, hurried home, brushed my teeth, slid between the sheets, and discovered I wasn’t sleepy after all.
    I have periodic bouts of insomnia. It’s not fatal and that’s the best I can say for it. I used to lie there and curse, but I’ve learned to cope. Now I get out of bed, pretend it’s morning, and do something I enjoy, like fooling with my old National Steel guitar.
    I tried a Blind Lemon Jefferson tune in E, one from the first Biograph album. I can still finger some pretty decent blues riffs, but I don’t practice like I used to, so I don’t sound the way I should. I had to repeat the bridge three times till I got the timing right.
    I like to hear a harmonica in the background, or maybe a thumping bass line. My ex-husband played bass, and guitar, mandolin, fiddle, banjo—anything with strings. I miss the harmonies, but I’ve just about stopped missing him. I imagine the harmony, or sometimes I play along with my tape deck. I don’t do much modern stuff. No love songs. Just old-time done-me-wrong