The White Trilogy by Ken Bruen

Author:Ken Bruen [Bruen, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781453289334
Publisher: Mysteriouspress.Com/Open Road
Published: 2003-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Americana

THE ALIEN WAS WELL pleased with his hotel. The El Drisco, on Pacific Avenue is one of those open secrets. Owned and operated by the same family since the twenties; Eisenhower and Truman had made visits. It sure looked presidential – deep pile carpets, green leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers ... Like that. For a moderate arm and leg it’s worth getting the hillside view.

THE receptionist had told Fenton the guest rooms were much more reasonable; but Fenton said, ‘I’m only doing it one time. Best to do it right, eh?’

The receptionist agreed that this was indeed a fine method of reasoning. Back in London a similar response would have been dangerously close to taking the piss. Here it was the American way.

In his room, Fenton stretched out on the bed, thought: One or two days to find Stell and kill her ... and maybe grab a few days rest and recreation in Tijuana ... ‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘I like the sound of that R & R ...

Fenton liked San Francisco. He was beginning to like it a whole lot. That it’s very much a walking city didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all. Twixt cabs, trolley and foot, he got to Fisherman’s Wharf.

The cabbie had said, ‘Yo buddy, a real native is a guy who’s never had eats at The Wharf. You hear what I’m saying?’

The Alien hadn’t quite got into the sheer in yer face dialogue, as if they’d known you always. He answered, ‘Course I hear you ... I’m not deaf.’

The cabbie took a look back. ‘English, right?’

‘How perceptive.’

Unfazed. ‘I love the way you guys talk, like Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone talks like that in England, am I right?’

Jesus! ‘Yeah ... except for the taxis – they shut it.’

‘That’s like the cabs, right?’

Getting out at the Wharf, Fenton paid, and sure enough the cabbie said, ‘You have a good day.’

‘Whatever.’

Fenton went straight for a bar. He was wearing thin on American goodwill. The barman welcomed him effusively.

Fenton said, ‘Give us a beer, OK?’

‘Domestic or imported?’

‘Fuck.’

Fenton was the other side of three bottles of Bud. Not outta it or even floating, but feeling them, a nice buzz building. He figured he’d do three more then go buy the baseball bat.

An exaggerated English accent cut through: ‘I say old chap, might I trouble you for a light?’

Fenton turned. On the stool beside him was a guy in his bad sixties. Liver spots on his hands and brown shorts, top to accessorise. He had eyes that Fenton could only think of as stupid, ie eager, friendly and open.

Fenton shrugged. He was definitely feeling those beers. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Actually, neither do I – I heard you order your drink and thought I’d give my skills a try. Was I convincing?’

‘As what?’

‘Oh yes, the English humour! I have all of Monty Python, would you like to see my Ministry of Funny Walks?’

‘You’re serious ... Jesus!’

‘You might have caught me on Seinfeld, I was the English cab driver.’

Fenton was suddenly tired, the beers wilted, the show winding down.

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