Pigs Get Fat (Trace 4) Read Online Free

and I will sneak out,” Chico said.
    “I don’t want to go out ,” Trace said.
    Chico’s mother leaned across to speak to him. She put her hand on his wrist.
    “You?” Emmie said.
    “Yes?”
    “Have good time?” she asked.
    “Wonderful,” Trace said.
    “Good. I have good time too. These people all Japanese,” she said as if he might not have noticed.
    Trace got up to leave between the raw fish and the speeches.
    “I’m going to the bar,” he told Chico.
    “They’re opening a bar here. You don’t have to go,” she said.
    “I don’t want to drink rice wine,” he said.
    “Be civilized, though. Don’t drink like a lunatic,” she said.
    “See you later,” he said.
    “Try oyasumi nasai . That means good night,” Chico said.
    “Try sayonara ,” Trace said. “That means good-bye forever.”
    Mr. Nishimoto’s face brightened again. “Oh?” he said, looking at Trace. “ Sayonara. Sayonara .” And before Trace had fully vacated it, he was sliding into Trace’s seat next to Chico.
    Trace growled and left.
     
     
    One of the worst things about changing your drinking habits, Trace had decided, was that the changes could become a new habit, just as imperious as the last.
    For years he had drunk only vodka, vodka from Finland, vodka by the tubful. And then, in a flurry of guilt, remorse, and henpecking, he had switched to wine to please Chico, who was worried that someday his liver might explode.
    That had been months ago and now he had gotten used to wine. But Trace never got used to the looks bartenders gave him when he ordered it without thinking. They regarded wine drinkers differently from how they regarded vodka drinkers.
    “They think I’m a wimp,” he told Chico.
    “Who cares what bartenders think?” Chico had said.
    “I do,” he said. “Bartenders are my only friends.”
    “That’s all changing now,” she had said. “And once you sober up, more people will like you. New vistas will open for you. You’ll rub shoulders with people who have a first language.”
    If he expected a curious look when he walked into the hotel bar and asked for a carafe, he could have forgotten it. This was San Francisco, and the bartender looked like the kind who poured wine drinks all day long. He wore a headband, earrings in both ears, and had tattoos on the backs of his hands. A key ring jangled at his belt.
    “Red or white, sir?” he asked. God, yes, he lisped.
    “Vodka,” Trace said. “Finlandia.”
    When he settled down with the drink, he had the bartender bring him a telephone and he dialed Michael Mabley’s number.
    The phone rang three times and a tape-recording clicked in.
    “Hello, this is the phone number of Michael Mabley and the Michael Mabley Insurance Agency. Even insurance men need some time off, and since this is the weekend, none of us is available. But if you’ll leave your name and number and a brief message, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Our regular office hours, which are the best time to call, are nine to five, Monday through Friday, and nine till noon on Saturday. Speak at the signal.”
    Trace waited for the beep and said, “My name is Devlin Tracy and I wanted to buy a ten-million-dollar life-insurance policy. I’d like to do business with you, but since I’ve offended you by calling on a Sunday night, I apologize and I’ll call another agency. However, if you decide you would like to handle this matter on this weekend day, you can try to reach me at…” Trace read the hotel telephone number and extension off the instrument, then hung up.
    The bartender reached for the telephone, but Trace held up his hand.
    “I’m expecting a call back in a moment,” he said. “Fill it again please.”
    Before the glass was topped, the telephone was ringing. The bartender answered, then said, “Your name Tracy?”
    Trace nodded and took the phone.
    Michael Mabley spoke fast, as if he was worried about being interrupted.
    “Mr. Tracy, this is Michael Mabley. I