Death By Sin by Lyle Blake Smythers

Author:Lyle Blake Smythers [Smythers, Lyle Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626393769
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2015-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Lensmeat

Thalia called while I was sitting in the Egret in front of Sasha’s place, waiting for her to change into something black. She made me wait in the car because she claimed that her rooms were fit for her eyes only.

“What are you doing?” Thalia asked. “Are you up for a late lunch?”

“Sasha and I are going to the Cow right now. I told her there was somebody there I wanted to talk to, and she made me promise to buy her lunch as penance for what I’ve put her through so far today.”

“And what was that?”

I told her all the gruesome details.

“So the bird has flown? What’s your next step?”

“I just talked to Viledark, and I’m waiting for instructions. He doesn’t go into the cat rooms until four, but he claims he has to think. He told me to call him back after I had eaten.”

Her throaty laugh came through the phone. “He wants everyone around him to be as well fed as he is. So, Sasha is willing to spend more time with you after you made her get dressed up as a Real Girl and almost got her killed by a robot dog?”

“Ever since somebody told her about what the Cow can do to veal cutlet medallions in cream sauce, she’s been wanting to go there. She’s never been.”

“It’s less than fifteen minutes from Del Ray.”

“She doesn’t get down into Old Town much. She likes to go the other direction, to Dupont Circle, where she can wear what she wants and not get stared at.”

“She’ll be okay at the Cow. It’s pretty bohemian. I’ll meet you there.”

Sasha got into the passenger seat, lifting her black leather skirt to swing heavy thick-soled engineer’s boots in, then pulling the skirt back down over her garter belt. Her T-shirt—black, what a surprise—was a promo for the local band Bikini Red, urging the world to buy their album Intent to Commit Snow.

She had also changed into a spooky 1980s goth wig that was all jagged points and unevenly cropped bangs with an extended shag. It was a look that said, “I cut my own hair with a dull razor.”

“There! Now I look like myself again.”

“You certainly do. I hope we can get from the car to the front door of the restaurant before someone calls the cops.”

There were no disturbingly attractive boys on the streets, Russian or otherwise, but I made sure to take a roundabout route out of the neighborhood, heading down Russell Road to maneuver around the George Washington Masonic Memorial where it loomed like a lighthouse above the railroad station. Too bad we didn’t have time to pop inside and check out the display of George’s false teeth.

Well within the predicted fifteen minutes, we were sitting in the downstairs dining room of Le Boeuf Sur le Toit. Sasha looked around at the damask and crystal on the small round tables and the framed Art Deco posters for long-gone European brands of beer and wine. One of them

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