Made to Kill Read Online Free Page A

my own robot.
    Me? I liked sunshine. Sunshine was good.
    I’d pulled out of the garage underneath the office and then decided to give the engine a little nap as I sat in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard along with what seemed like every other car in town. The traffic crawled forward in fits and starts. I sat tight. Maybe traffic was always like this and I just didn’t remember. I was in no hurry. As I rolled forward at a hundred miles a week I first counted all the clothes boutiques with women’s names that ended in an “i.” Then I counted all the colors of neon used in the signs for steak houses. There were a lot of both and I came to the conclusion that the citizens of this town liked dresses and they liked steak. Didn’t seem too bad a combination.
    After an ice age I reached the point where, according to the address the girl had written on my blotter and the idea of a street map I had embedded in my permanent memory, I was going to take a right and head toward the Hollywood Hills. Then I saw why traffic was so sticky.
    The street ahead was blocked in one direction by a string of big trucks parked at the curb. There were cones out and two traffic cops in dark glasses and white gloves played chess against each other with cars and busses as their pieces. I changed lanes and slid forward to get a look.
    Behind the trucks and the cops and the cones was the most famous picture house in town: Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The temple-like frontage was mostly covered in scaffold, which would have been a disappointment to tourists if the trucks weren’t blocking the perfect photo op anyway.
    Of course. The special nation-wide film premiere of Red Lucky was set for Friday, and along with the cast dancing the red carpet, Grauman’s was the star attraction. Today was Tuesday. They just had time to get the green and gold and red woodwork polished up. There were four trucks; the backs of two were shut but two were open. One looked like it was filled with cables, thin and fat and sizes in-between, all wound around big reels, and behind those were wooden crates stacked to the ceiling. Equipment for the special film transmission, I guessed. The other truck was filled with enough rolls of red carpet to get to Mexico and maybe even back again.
    I wondered how the transmission was done. Probably something like television. Then I wondered why they hadn’t done something like that before and then I’d passed the theatre and the traffic cops and Hollywood Boulevard opened up like an empty airport runway. I changed lanes back to where I was then took the next left. Then I realized I’d gone one over so I took the next left and then the next right. With the car now pointed in the right direction I applied pressure to the accelerator and drove into the hills.
    As I wound my way to a higher altitude, I saw the Hollywood Sign looming first on my right, and after a few minutes it was more or less dead ahead. It looked big up there on the hill. It sat there almost reluctantly, just waiting for the spotlight to move off it so it could go do something more interesting. As I got closer it seemed to shrink somehow in that way that all landmarks big enough to be seen from afar shrink when you get closer. Then it was gone, hidden by the hills. As I headed toward the mystery address I was surrounded by nothing but winding tarmac and dry scrubby flora that clung to the hills like fluff on a teenager’s chin. Above me and the car the sky was very big and very blue.
    The road was steep and got steeper. I changed gears and pushed the car upwards and wondered where I was going. The view was pretty nice up here. I guessed even movie stars liked to take long drives in the hills now and again to admire it.
    The telephone that sat in the cradle between me and the passenger seat rang. I picked it up.
    “Having a nice time, chief?”
    Ada always spoke before I could say hello.
    “Nice day for a drive, Ada.”
    “You’re right there. Turn left.”
    I