Blues in the Night Read Online Free

She was in and out like The Flash. I barely had time to park. Why you making such a big fucking deal of it?’
    â€˜Don’t mind me,’ Mace said. He pulled his jacket off the back of a chair and headed for the door.
    â€˜Were you goin’?’ Wylie asked.
    â€˜I need some fresh air.’
    â€˜Fresh air? In this fucking city?’
    â€˜Keep watching the window,’ Mace said. ‘Hers.’
    â€˜Where you really goin’?’
    â€˜Cigarettes. You need anything?’
    Wylie shook his head. ‘You gonna be gone long?’
    â€˜Hour, maybe. You know what to do if the subject leaves her apartment?’
    â€˜I gotta tell ya. I’m so raked by your “the subject” bullshit. Use her fucking name or call her a bitch or whore or what the hell.’
    â€˜You don’t want to use names,’ Mace said. ‘And you do want to keep it impersonal. So, with your permission, she’s “the subject”. OK?’
    Wylie shrugged. ‘It’s so fucking spy movie .’
    â€˜Call her what you want,’ Mace said. ‘Just keep your eye on her.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah,’ Wiley said.

FOUR
    A lthough walking seemed to be frowned on in LA, Mace thought it preferable to getting the rental out, bucking traffic and then trying to find a parking place. Actually, the Sunset Strip had changed so drastically since he’d last seen it, he didn’t even know where you could or couldn’t park any more. Too many signs. ‘One Hour Parking, 8 am – 6 p.m.’ ‘No Parking 6 pm – 10 p.m.’ ‘No Parking Anytime.’ The address he wanted wasn’t more than five or six blocks away.
    He moved with purpose down the Strip, maneuvering around the late-night dawdlers – hookers, pimps, members of the glitterati who’d dined fashionably late, tourists looking slightly lost and anxious, slackers with nothing better to do.
    He put himself in the tourist camp.
    His destination was an address in the middle of the block. Nine years ago, when he’d been a resident of the city, it had been home to a vegan health restaurant called ‘The Elegant Eggplant’. Now there was nothing elegant about it. Or remotely healthy. The building had been painted black long enough ago for wind and weather to have softened the color to an ugly mottled gray. A red neon sign identified it as ‘Honest Abe’s Coffee Empourium’. A cardboard sign, stuck in the display window added, in hand lettering: ‘Tonight: Jerry Monte, Saturday: Super Slam.’
    A youthful crowd, mainly female, formed a line that continued down the block as far as he could see, not too many of them listening to the poetry and jazz blaring from a pair of speakers attached just under the club’s roofline. Thanks to a groping couple, Mace found a narrow gap in the queue and headed to the entrance where a closed door was being guarded by a giant with arms like tree trunks hanging from his muscle T-shirt. He was the standard-brand bald bouncer except for the five precious stones weighing down his right ear lobe and the heavily mascaraed eyes, which he turned on Mace with some suspicion.
    â€˜I’m an old friend of Abe’s,’ Mace said.
    â€˜So are they,’ the bouncer said, indicating the queue.
    â€˜Tell him Mace wants to see him.’
    The bouncer studied him for a beat. He took a few extra seconds to look past him to prove he was no pushover. Then he turned, opened the door and ducked inside the club.
    The people in line glared at Mace. He ignored them and did his best to ignore the blather coming from the speaker.
    When the bouncer reappeared, he said, ‘Abe’s at the rear.’
    The night air had been cool enough, but inside the shadowy club it was freezing, even with the place packed with young customers. They didn’t seem to notice their chattering teeth as they stared reverentially at a pale poetess who was sharing the