Charles Alverson - Joe Goodey 02 - Not Sleeping, Just Dead by Charles Alverson

Author:Charles Alverson [Alverson, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery: Thriller - Hardboiled - P.I. - California
ISBN: 1940708273
Publisher: Tinderboxed Press
Published: 1977-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

12

When I got downstairs, most of the mob had filtered into the large drawing room that seemed to be the Horizon Room. I followed along, keeping close to the walls and playing the interested but detached observer. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself, which made it doubly unfortunate that I was just about the only one there who was fully dressed. My clothes aren’t much at the best of times, but even after being dropped in the dirt by J. B. Carter, I stood out like Diamond Jim Brady at a slumber party.

When I got into the big—and now crowded—room, it hadn’t changed much since that afternoon except that someone had spray-painted HUGO FUCK YOURSELF!!! on the expensive embossed wallpaper in a nasty shade of purple paint.

I began to get a glimmer why Fischer had asked us all to join him. And why that same charismatic figure was standing barefoot in a bright yellow terrycloth robe in front of a massive fireplace glaring at the assemblage. His birthmark seemed to be especially livid. Flanking him were Don Moffitt, looking as though he wanted to maim somebody—anybody—and Pops Martin, who was trying to be tough but mostly looked sleepy and a bit bewildered. He was peering around the room anxiously. I spotted Rachel among the crowd, but she studiously refused to acknowledge that I existed.

There weren’t enough chairs and couches, so most of us perched on window sills or just leaned against the walls. I was a leaner, myself. My watch told me it was after 2 a.m., and my head still throbbed where J.B. had sandbagged me. I noted that among those in the high priced seats were Mrs. J.B.—Tommy slumped beside her looking like a big baby in a set of woolly green pajamas— Rachel, Cousin Harold, Mrs. Harold and Dr. Carey. First among equals, you might say. Fischer’s wife, Lenore, was sitting behind his right shoulder looking played out.

A half-moon-shaped area between Fischer and the front row was left vacant, and he stalked its periphery while security men in gray coveralls moved among the crowd, taking a head count. Finally, one of them sidled up to him and announced that all residents and guests were present or accounted for. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Genie tucked neatly in a far corner of the big room. She was swaddled to the chin in a very demure fuzzy blue kimono, and doing her best to be invisible. She wasn’t looking anywhere near me, and that suited me fine. Just at that moment, Pops spotted her, too, and his face was a confusion of emotions. Before he could decide which of them to vent, however, Hugo put his big hands on his hips and began to speak.

“We’re all here, friends,” Fischer said, “so I suppose we can begin.” A graveyard stillness fell over the room. Fischer surveyed us all for an uncomfortably long time, as if trying to extract a confession by sheer will power.

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