Get Shorty Read Online Free Page B

semi-French château high up in Beverly Hills, above the lights of L.A. Built in the late twenties for a movie star and passed on to others.
    From the doorway he said to Karen, “Why chew make me do thees?”
    â€œBecause I’m a girl,” the pale figure on the bed answered, “and you’re bigger than I am. A lot.”
    Harry moved down the curved staircase in his shirt and boxer shorts, the monotone sound of voices becoming more distinct; he could hear words now and what sounded like audience response, the volume turned up to be heard on the second floor. He believed it was the Letterman show. The tile in the foyer was cold on his bare feet. Mexican tile now and primitive art, hardwood floors except in the study, all the fat comfortable slipcovered furniture from Michael’s time gone. And yet there were pictures of him in the study, among the dozens of photographs of movie people and movie posters covering the paneled walls.
    He crossed to the study, the door open partway, dark inside except for the glow from the big thirty-two-inch Sony. There, David Letterman talking to someone—not Shecky, it wasn’t his voice.
    Harry couldn’t see the desk, where he and Karen had sat with the bottle of Scotch, schmoozing, Karen telling him she was reading a script she might do. Oh, really? Want to get back into it, huh? Great. Biding his time until finally making his presentation:here is my tremendous opportunity, but here are the problems. Pause. Waiting then for her to say, Maybe I can help. No, she tells him he ought to lose weight.
    Still, there was hope. Asking him to spend the night was a good sign. Looking after him, saying he was in no condition to drive. It meant she cared. Though not enough to let him sleep with her when he suggested it, as kind of a trip down memory lane. Spunky Karen said, “If you think nostalgia’s going to get you laid, forget it.” He could take the guest room or a cab. Fine, sleeping with her wasn’t that important anyway; they were back on familiar ground with one another. When he did slip into her bed, later, Karen said, “I mean it, Harry, we’re not going to do anything.”
    But, she didn’t kick him out.
    So he felt pretty good pushing open the door to the study, telling himself there was no one in here. If there was it would be one of Karen’s friends, no doubt stoned, some bit-part actor thinking he was funny. Okay, he’d nod to the guy very nonchalantly, turn the TV off and walk out.
    Moving into the glow from the big Sony now, most of the room dark, he saw David Letterman talking to Paul Shaffer, his music guy, the two of them acting hip. Harry felt his bare feet in the warm carpeting. Felt himself jump and said, “Jesus Christ!” as Letterman and Paul Shaffer vanished, the screen going to black in the same moment the desk lamp came on.
    A guy Harry had never seen before was sitting there, hunched over a little, his arms resting on the desk. A guy in black. Dark hair, dark eyes, that lean, hard-boned type. A guy in his forties.
    He said, “Harry Zimm, how you doing?” in a quiet tone of voice. “I’m Chili Palmer.”

3
    Harry pressed a hand against his chest. He said, “Jesus, if I have a heart attack I hope you know what to do,” convinced the guy was a friend of Karen’s, the way he was making himself at home, the guy staring at him out of those deep-set dark eyes but with hardly any expression.
    He said, “Where you been, Harry?”
    Harry let his hand slide down over his belly, taking his time, wanting to show he had it together now, not the least self-conscious, standing there without his pants on.
    â€œHave we met? I don’t recall.”
    â€œWe just did. I told you, my name’s Chili Palmer.”
    The guy speaking with some kind of East Coast accent, New York or New Jersey.
    â€œTell me what you been up to.”
    Harry still had a mild buzz-on that