The Bum's Rush by Ford G. M

Author:Ford, G. M. [Ford, G. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, detective, Seattle, Suspense, Crime, Humour
ISBN: 9781612183749
Amazon: 1612183743
Goodreads: 15096103
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 1997-05-01T07:00:00+00:00

"Unlike some people." She stared me down. "Mr. Conover is a gentleman. Unlike some people, he knows how to act. How to treat a lady."

She actually tapped her foot while she waited. "Well?" she said.

"Well what?"

"Well, go away like you said you would."

"I lied."

"You're execrable," she hissed.

"I'll help you," I said suddenly.

She was dubious. "How could you possibly help me?"

"You might be surprised."

"Oh, here it comes," she said to the sky.

"Come on up to the coffee shop on the corner. Tell me your story. If you're straight with me, I'll be straight with you."

"Oh, let me guess. You want to work out your middle aged hornies on me. It's the little plaid skirt. Something like that. Maybe have me tell you about what a bad boy you've been?"

"Just talk," I said. "I'm just old, not blind."

"You should get so lucky," she hissed.

"I just want to talk," I said again.

She looked me over. "How do I know--"

"You don't. The only thing you know for sure is that whatever deal you've had working up till now is history. First thing tomorrow morning that all goes down the toilet. I was being straight with you back there. Believe me, honey, it's time for plan B."

At first, I thought I'd crapped out. She brushed past me and started up the hill. I stayed where I was and watched as she banged open the coffee shop door and went inside.

I got her settled in a booth with a double mocha decaf. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. "Where should I start?" she said with a sigh.

"Howzabout back at the beginning."

"My parents live in Orem "

"Whoa, whoa," I said. "Too far back."

"When I began my career?"

"What career?"

"Rock and roll."

"You mean your career as a music groupie."

"God, I hate that word. It's sooo retro. What's next, love-ins? Be-ins? We all sit on the ground and sing 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore'?"

"Well, what do you call it?"

"I'm a professional musical companion," she said.

"Okay, start there." I sighed.

I got out my notebook. She took a moment to organize , her thoughts.

"Actually, Jesus was my first."

"Oh, Christ," I groaned.

"Not that one, you moron. Greasy Jesus. The band." She looked to me for recognition. "You're sooooo lame," she said.

"Greasy Jesus, eh?"

"Actually it was Wound."

"Wound?"

"The lead singer. That was just his stage name. He had ''

this scar on his side. You know, like where Jesus was sup- t m

posed to have one, only his wasn't from a spear or anything; it was from chicken wire. His real name was Howie Dickman." She checked the restaurant for spies. "That's strictly hush-hush, though. Like, nobody, but nobody, knows his real name."

"Your secret's safe with me," I assured her.

Three pages in, we were through a couple more lead singers, a keyboard player, and a road manager and working on our first drummer. I was wishing I'd taken shorthand in high school.

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