Little Easter Read Online Free Page A

beard nor any gray hair in his full blond waves. Though a good ten years my senior, he’d always introduce me to people as his father. As yet, no one was quite blind enough to believe it, but sometimes, just sometimes, strangers hesitated a bit too long before laughing.
    “Merry Christmas!” I threw my right hand out for a shake and a pull up.
    “Bar looks like shit,” he observed accusingly, but yanked me up just the same.
    “You heard?” I rolled my shoulders and stretched.
    “I heard. Carney practically jumped me on my way in. I haven’t seen the old bastard that agitated since they cut out his right lung. He was a little sketchy on the details, but your name kinda got mentioned every third word.”
    “Yeah, it was quite a party.”
    “Do tell,” Johnny sat down at the bar where Kate Barnum had sat. “Do tell.”
    I did. I told. Everything, this time. He wore his cop face, absorbing it all like a skeptical sponge. I hated that particular face, that cop face. The face that saw only enemies. The face that says: “Yeah, right! You lying scumbag. Stop wasting my time and tell me the truth. Truth? I wouldn’t believe it anyway coming outta your mouth.” I hated that face because it was reflexive and showed a MacClough I didn’t know, couldn’t know, didn’t want to know. I told myself he couldn’t help it. That attitudes couldn’t be left at the door like service revolvers and badges. But I still hated that face.
    “Johnny Blue, huh?” the ex-detective peeled off the cynical make-up sooner than expected, almost too soon. “Good name for a rockabilly star.”
    “So you’re not—”
    “—Johnny Blue. No. Sorry to disappoint you.”
    “And this doesn’t mean anything to you?” I fished the diamond heart out of my pocket.
    “Not unless it means we’re goin’ steady,” he gave a cursory glance at the orphaned heart. “Thanks, Dylan,” he never called me that.
    “For . . .”
    “For putting on the stall until we talked. Merry Christmas ya heathen Jew bastard.” He hugged me.
    “You’re welcome, but now how do I tell the cops about these new details? I wasn’t shocky or anything. It’s gonna look pretty suspicious.”
    “Here,” Johnny snatched the jewlry out of my paw. “I’ll handle it.”
    “But—”
    “But nothin’. I said I’ll deal with it and I will. I do the cop-speak thing pretty damned well,” he bragged, sounding more like the man I knew.
    “So whaddaya think?” I tried turning the page back to the subject of murder.
    “About what?” MacClough wanted to know, sniffing at the cold coffee I’d left on the bar the night before.
    “About raggy mink ladies with orange make-up. About little yellow birds and bullet holes. About—”
    “Where’s my sweater,” John cut me off.
    “The cops. I told you. Nitrate tests. Remember?”
    “Yeah,” he waved carelessly. “I never believed half the shit those forensic guys came up with. I swear they used to make their results up as they went along.”
    “What about the murder?” I refused to let go.
    “What about it? Murder is murder. When you strip away all the frills, all you got is a dead human being,” was the ex-cop’s strangely undetective-like conclusion. “The bird? Could be window dressing. Could be it just flew into her mouth. Maybe Frank Perdue is a serial killer. I don’t know. It’s fuckin’ Christmas Day. Can we get off the subject?”
    “Sure,” I gave in uneasily. “Let’s clean up.”
    “No, not today. I’ll do it tomorrow.” He squeezed the back of my neck with brotherly affection. “Let’s go open some gifts.”
    “Okay, MacClough,” I shook his calloused right hand.
    He took one long look at the barroom and stood, head bowed, for some seconds. It seemed oddly like a moment of prayer.

London in December
    Whenever I could not write, I’d assemble mental lists of authors and poets I could barely approximate and never be. There were very many lists. I would never be F. Scott or J.R.R. or