When Elephants Forget (Trace 3) Read Online Free PDF

worries if I’m not home.”
    “When does she call?”
    “Never know. Usually late. She forgets about the three-hour time thing.”
    “Horseshit,” Trace said. “That woman forgets nothing. She calls that late just to wake you up and annoy you and bust your chops. I know that woman.”
    “Afraid I do too,” Sarge said. “I think I’ll be home when she calls. In case she calls early.”
    “Have it your own way. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    He left them and Trace told Chico, “First thing we have to do is find excuses to keep Sarge out all night. Screw this pussy-whipped bullshit about being home in case my mother calls.”
    “Don’t bet that hand too high,” Chico said.
    “Why not?”
    “How long’s she supposed to be gone for?”
    “Eight days and seven nights,” Trace said. “You know, somebody ought to offer a special gambler’s package. Eight days and six nights. The last day you’re there, you’ve lost all your money and you can sleep in the gutter.”
    “Mess around with her phone calls and she might come back early,” Chico warned. “She might get here before we leave.”
    Trace thought about that for a moment, then nodded. He called out softly after Sarge’s departing figure, “Hurry home, Sarge. Hurry. Man the telephones. You’re the last best hope of civilization.”
     
     
    Trace told Chico that she was much too beautifully turned out to waste, so he would take her someplace fancy for dinner. She was impressed until they got into a cab and Trace told the driver to take them to Chez Nick.
    The cabbie grumbled about losing his place in line at the hotel and Trace understood why when he found out the restaurant was only six blocks from the hotel. The afternoon humidity had finally broken, and on the warm pleasant night, they could easily have walked, Chico pointed out to him.
    “What? Walk with you? Down all these mean streets where violence dwells? Where muggers and white slavers and pimps and pornographers are just waiting to scoop you up and take you away from me. Not a chance, girl. I am your man, and to prove you’re a man, you may not live like one, but you have to be prepared to die like one.”
    “What the hell does all that mean?” Chico asked.
    “Listen to him, he’s right,” the cabbie said, hoping to earn a big tip.
    “See?” Trace said trimphantly. “He recognizes a big thinker when he sees one. You know what they always say. You want to know anything in New York, ask a cabdriver. Or a private detective. Keep your door locked so nobody breaks into the cab if we stop.”
    Trace gave the cabbie five dollars and told him to keep the change. Outside the restaurant, under the canopy that reached to the curbside, he told Chico, “It’s annoying, having this restaurant so close to the hotel. I could really have run up the expenses if it were far away.”
    The tuxedoed maître d’ turned toward them from his station as they entered, and Trace jumped forward and shook his hand and greeted him effusively. “Pierre, good to see you again. How’s the family, Pierre?”
    “Very good, sir,” the man said chillfully. “I’m George.”
    Trace snapped his fingers. “Of course. Pierre’s your twin brother. Give him my best. Do you have a table for me and the lady?”
    The maître d’ made a pretense of checking his reservation list, and when he turned back, Trace shook his hand again and put a twenty-dollar bill into it.
    “I think we can take care of you. I’ve forgotten your name, sir. I’m sorry.”
    “Rascali,” Trace said. “Luigi Rascali.”
    The maître d’ nodded. Trace noticed a set of double doors that led to a stairwell. The doors were marked simply “TO THE DANCE.” He thought if that was the disco entrance, the restaurant’s soundproofing system was wonderful because he heard no music at all where he was standing, except the unobtrusive playing of a piano in the far corner of the dining room.
    George took them to a table in a corner of the