Such a Pretty Girl by Laura Wiess

Author:Laura Wiess [Wiess, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781847396051
Google: 6w5aH-xBtkMC
Amazon: 1416521836
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2007-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I take the direct route back and within fifteen minutes am turning off Main Street into the complex. My overalls are wrinkled but dry from the hot, whooshing breeze stirred by passing motorists.

“FFWHEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!”

I wince, pause, and track the shrill whistle.

Nigel Balthazar is on his front stoop. “Finally. Come here.” His face is florid and the pits of his shirt are dark with sweat. “Christ, don’t make me yell. It’ll kill me.”

I hesitate, then pad up his front walk. I can spare a couple of minutes. “What?”

Gilly appears in the smeary living room window and barks to join us.

“Have a seat,” he says, waving me toward one of the two rusty, nylon-strapped lawn chairs squatting in the sun. “I want to show you something.”

“You must be kidding,” I say, eyeing the spiderweb shrouds draping the chair legs and the bug corpses dangling from the arms, wafting and bumping lazily in the breeze like macabre wind chimes. “What did you do, steal these out of Stephen King’s cellar?”

“They’re the best I could do on short notice,” he says crankily, maneuvering his bulk in front of a chair. He grips the plastic armrests and gingerly lowers himself until the chair stops screeching in protest. His butt scrapes the ground and I have no idea how he will ever get up. “Are you gonna plant it or what?”

I sigh and settle into my hellish throne. Light a cigarette and lay the pack on the rickety table next to a mummified daddy longlegs. My throat is parched and the cigarette makes me cough. “Water?” I look around for a hose.

He frowns at my staccato hack. “You should have said something before I wedged my ass into this torture device. Go into the fridge and grab a couple of Snapples. And you might as well bring Gilly out, too. Her leash is by the door.”

“You sure?” I rasp, because I’ve never been in his condo before.

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, deliberately misunderstanding my question. “I just dropped it there ten minutes ago. I may be a relic, but I’m not senile yet, kid.”

“A matter of opinion,” I say, earning a dark look.

Gilly prances as I make my way through the shabby living room to the kitchen. The place smells of coffee, cigarettes, and dog. Framed police commendations are mounted on the wall around an autographed black-and-white glossy of some leather-

faced cowboy actor. It’s really old, so it might be John Wayne. Or maybe Clint Eastwood.

Fuzzy white hairballs stir and drift along the hardwood floor as I pass through the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen. There are twelve more pictures hanging here, all scrawled with signatures, all black and white.

“Nigel Balthazar, autograph hound,” I murmur, grinning. “Who would’ve thunk it?” I open the fridge and choose a Snapple grape and a raspberry iced tea. Bump the fridge closed, find Gilly’s leash, and lead her back outside.

“Nothing like taking your time,” Nigel says. “What were you doing in there, sightseeing?”

“I was star struck,” I retort, holding out both Snapples.

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