Palindrome Read Online Free Page B

takes a lot of pride in being a man of his word. Unbelievable how many dirtbags consider themselves men of honor. He’s about to sidle back into his nether-­lair when he stops and asks if I have a card, says he’s actually in need of a snooper. Especially one he knows won’t sell him down the river to a higher bidder.
    Matty “Orange” Julius calls me two weeks later. He and his goons pick me up in a black Escalade and drive me around town while he describes the job. He wants me to hunt down a pair of Italians who sold him what he claims is a fake Rembrandt. I say I don’t know jack about art, and he replies all I have to know is how to track down shitbags. Cuts me a check for the down payment right there in the car, catches my smirk when I see Midtown Fitness, DBA in the upper left-­hand corner , and then I’m off, Orange never clueing me in to the precise nature of his apparently very well-­decorated subterranean operation.
    It was two months before I busted in on the Italians in their recently acquired Miami penthouse, brandishing my Magnum and screaming to drop the prosecco and kiss the fucking carpet. Finding them had required less blurring than straight-­up mauling of certain laws. Notably: those against breaking and entering, aggressive interrogation techniques, and whichever amendment preserves an immigrant’s right to not be knocked unconscious, bound with duct tape, and hauled back to Manhattan in the trunk of a rented Hyundai with very bad shocks.
    â€œLook,” I tell Greta, handing her back her license, “you should know that’s not my usual purview. I got caught a little deep in that mess and ended up doing some things I’m not proud of. If you’re looking to hurt someone, I’m not your guy. Hurting happens incidentally, but I try to avoid it. And if you want someone killed, I’m going to advise you to just turn around, as I’d be legally obliged to report that.”
    In the silence that follows, I find myself desperately hoping she doesn’t take my advice. I really need the work. I try to keep my gaze level with hers, but it’s like looking into the sun.
    Finally she licks her lips. It’s subtle and quick but doesn’t escape my attention.
    â€œNothing like that, Mr. Lamb.” She interlocks her gloved hands in front of her on the table, still sitting straight as a flagpole. Maybe she does yoga. “I want you to find something for me. And Orange Julius spoke very highly of your tracking abilities. As for the legality of the methods you employ, I couldn’t care less. I care only about results.”
    I swallow hard. I’ve never met a woman like this. She’s beyond gorgeous, sure, but something about her unnerves me. Her skin is too perfect , her wide, unblinking green eyes coldly calculating. It’s like aliens created a flawless synthetic human from silicone. She’s like a parody of beauty.
    â€œAlright,” I say. “I’m listening.”
    She reaches a gloved hand into her black leather handbag and removes a thick folder. She’s about to open it but seems to think better of it and looks at me. The dying January day seeps in from the window behind me, casting half her face in pale, orange light. Her eyes are locked in a subtle—­but fierce—­glare that, with a little imagination, could be construed as sexual. I try to force that thought out of my head; I’ve seen guys crush on their clients, and it never ends well. Sure, Sadie could use a mom, but Greta doesn’t quite strike me as the nurturing type.
    â€œThe first and most important thing to understand, Mr. Lamb, is that I value discretion. Nothing I tell you can be mentioned to anyone, even if you don’t decide to accept my case. Is that clear?”
    I’ve already lost control of this situation. Usually I’m the one laying down the ground rules, telling the flustered client how it’s