Poisoned Pearls Read Online Free Page A

to work. And you know where to find
me.”
    “You work here?” Ms. Monroe said, indicating the building
next to us.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I told her proudly. “Chinaman Joe’s Good Luck
Parlor. We have all the toys you want—even the ones you didn’t know you
needed.” I winked at her.
    Surprisingly, Ms. Monroe wasn’t insulted; instead, she
laughed, a clear tinkling sound through that dark alley that caused all the
cops to look up. It had that joyous sound that you rarely heard these days, that
promised warmth and safety and a really good time in bed.
    It sent a warm jolt through my middle that the thought of
going inside couldn’t match.
    Not my type, I
told myself again, though I knew I was well and truly screwed, particularly
when Ms. Monroe told me, “I’ll come see you sometime.”
    ***
    I wasn’t about to tell Chinaman Joe that I’d had to close
the store for more than an hour. Normally, we had one person in the afternoons,
with two people running the place at night. But the schedule had gotten screwed
up: Travis had needed the night off, and Amy, the other worker, hadn’t been
available. Plus, it was a weeknight. I knew the place wouldn’t be hard to
manage on my own.
    Knowing my luck, Chinaman Joe would probably find out
anyway.
    Cheap bastard had better not dock my wages.
    I was living close enough to the edge as it was. A couple
hours’ pay meant the difference between being in nicotine withdrawal and
bumming smokes and alienating all my friends until the New Year or coasting in
a happy smoky haze.
    I knew better than to hope for some kind of Christmas bonus.
Not like Chinaman Joe celebrated the season, despite the cheery red and silver
garlands strung up on the wall, the candy-cane vibrators proudly on display as
you walked in the door, or the “elf” costumes that were merely green and red
corsets.
    The store was in west downtown, in one of the many
warehouses that had been converted into more livable space. Though the
conversion had been recent, the store had that groovy ’70s feel. The shelves
were cheap metal and plastic; the gray linoleum floor always looked dingy, no
matter how much time I spent cleaning it; and the lights were all fluorescent
and buzzed annoyingly.
    Still, it was kind of home for me. Chinaman Joe had given me
a job when I was still “in between” residences, living at a halfway house.
Plus, even all through the winter, it was blessedly warm. Chinaman Joe might
have been a cheap bastard, but he hated the cold more than most.
    I’d been born in Minnesota, so while I could claim I was used
to it, no one really got used to forty below. I peeled out of my jacket and
scarf, then held my hands over my ears so they might have a chance to warm up.
    I refused to play any damned Christmas music while I was
running the store. I argued with Chinaman Joe that our customers were looking
for a different kind of home cheer. But I had to play something in the
background, otherwise the hum of the lights would drive even the most sane to
vodka. I spun up my favorite ’70s rock mix.
    I figured if I could keep moving, I wouldn’t get morose over
Kyle’s death.
    Before I could grab my phone and start calling people, soft
chimes let me know that someone had just come in the door.
    I braced myself. It wasn’t Ms. Monroe, was it?
    No, it was Angela, one of the hookers who worked Hennepin
Avenue, who I’d let crash at my place a couple of times that summer, when she’d
been in a bind. She’d never brought a john up, and hadn’t minded sharing a bed,
though neither of us took it further than that.
    I didn’t see how she or the other girls could work a street
corner in Minneapolis during the winter, particularly not in that
getup—short, fake leopard-fur coat, black hot pants that rode all the way
up to her crotch, gold fishnets, and matching gold ankle boots.
    I was cold just looking at her.
    Angela’s wig that night curled tightly around her ears,
streaked in blonde and black. I