Benighted Read Online Free Page A

mobile. It won’t be on the bill, it’s pay-as-you-go.”
    The bastard is an idiot. “Mr. Ellaway, that’s not much of an alibi, then, is it? You could have called from anywhere.”
    “I called from home.” There’s tenacity here. It isn’t just stupidity, or not ordinary stupidity. He’s not even trying: he’s just waiting for us to let him out, because he’s certain that nothing can really happen to him.
    “This Lewis Albin, who is he, a workmate?”
    “No.”
    “An acquaintance?”
    He shrugs.
    “Tell me, do your employers know you’re facing criminal charges?”
    He shrugs. “Kind of. Some of the people at work know, but it’s not a big deal, I mean, we didn’t talk about it much. I don’t know if my boss knows or not.”
    For a moment I stare at him while he toys with my cigarette. He doesn’t even know what he’s said. He actually looks surprised when I put a stop to the interview there and send him back to the cells.
     
    Lewis Albin is not a name I’m familiar with. I check his address: it’s a classy area on the other side of town, bordered by a shabby area. Artistic. It’s in the Five Wounds district—his house is near enough to the park itself to send the price up. The next thing to do is check with him; maybe he heard the TV in the background or something, which would clear Ellaway and leave us free to find someone else to swing.
    An answering machine clicks on after two rings. “Hello, this is Lewis. Let me know, and I’ll call you back…” The voice is young, healthy, with good lungs behind it, almost like an actor’s. He doesn’t have a non accent, which I could have guessed straight off: it’s a bit more regional than Ellaway’s, but still middle-class lyco. I think I’ll pay a call on this Mr. Albin.
    Jerry is hauled up from downstairs, and I have to deal with him before I can leave. They’ve put the hoses on him; he stinks less, and he’s quieted down. Moon loitering is an awkward one, because of course he’s guilty as hell, and what are you supposed to do about it? Imprison him for a few months, and he’ll only be that much more of a nuisance.
    “Jerry,” I say. “You know you could do six months for this.”
    Even sobered up, he leans on his consonants like they were a bar table. It’s something he’s done more and more over the years; most people pressure him less when he acts drunk. He knows I don’t fall for it, but habits are hard to break. He’s got to stop if he wants to help himself now, though. “I don want to go to jail, Lola. What’d I do in there?”
    “Time, Jerry. I don’t see you liking it.”
    “You’re a hard woman. I tell you that before?”
    “Every time, Jerry. What, you want me to be nice to you and let you fall around town and get dogcaught every month? You’re slipping, you need to hear that.”
    He slumps in his chair. His clothes hang off him, his hair straggles in greasy sheets. I can see why he prefers himself in his cups.
    “Look, Jerry. You go back on your AA program, and I can maybe, and I mean maybe, get the judge to go easy on you.”
    “I don’t wanna go to jail,” he mumbles. “Why do I have to get hauled in?”
    “Are you listening? You stick with your rehab, and you’ve got a chance. You break it, and you’re counting bars, ones that don’t serve you whisky. Prison or the pledge, Jerry. It’s your choice.” With Jerry, it’s usually worth saying things several times: your chances of at least part of it sinking in are better.
    “I been on the wagon.”
    “You’ve been out in the moon twelve times.”
    “Twelve times.” He blinks at me. “Why’d they haul me in on this one?”
    “Probably because you pissed on the catcher. That kind of thing gets on people’s nerves, you know? And cute though your face is, Jerry, we’re getting sick of the sight of it.”
    “Don’t remember pissing on anyone.”
    “You wouldn’t, would you? You were luning at the time. Between your drinking and your furring up,