Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Online Free Page B

about the cock-fighting subculture among local farm workers. His grammar wasn’t perfect, but I found the story gripping.
    I wanted to applaud. But the room went silent as critiquers scribbled notes.
    Roarke strolled back to the lectern.
     “ Any comments for Mr. Cervantes?”
    A fiftiesh woman in Ralph Lauren denim began.
    “ First, it was totally unbelievable. Nobody would bet money on chickens fighting each other. Make them polo ponies or racehorses or something. Plus the violence was offensive.”
    Another woman, whose beige hair exactly matched her raw silk overalls, agreed.
    “ I was offended by that talk about black cocks. You can’t say that in this day and age.”
    After a wave of titters, one of a group of smug twenty-somethings spoke.
    “ I agree it’s unbelievable. A macho guy kills himself over a sick rooster?”
    Ernesto clenched his jaw. “El Despertador is a fighting cock…”
    “ No talk-back!” commanded Roarke. “Not till everybody says their piece.” He gave his audience a conspiratorial grin. “I have to agree that nobody’s going to buy all this tragedy about—well, let’s face it—poultry. You can’t start with a highfalutin’ literary quote and end with the dying thoughts of a friggin’ chicken!”
    Titters exploded into guffaws.
    The Miss Manners fan interrupted.
    “ I felt sorry for Desperado. And the boy who killed himself after he gambled away his mother’s savings.”
    “ No!” Ernesto yelled. “Not Desperado. Despertador. It means—”
    Despertador. My Berlitz Spanish sent me a brain-flash.
    “ Alarm clock!” I blurted out. “The rooster’s name is ‘Alarm Clock.’ It’s all a joke. It’s very funny…”
    “ So, Mr. Cervantes, doesn’t that make you feel better?” Roarke gave a savage smile. “The former Mrs. Jonathan Kahn is amused by your—um—little cock.” 
    The room went silent as Ernesto, his face taut with rage, bounded from the stage. The door closed behind him with an eloquent thud.
    Toby Roarke glared at me.
    “ You tell the boy his story is a joke? You really are into that sadism stuff like they say, aren’t you?”
    I stuffed both shoes into my bag and ran after the boy. I must have been wrong about the alarm clock.
    “ Ernesto!” I called down the corridor. “I’m so sorry!”
    A small, elderly woman grabbed my arm as I ran by.
    “ You look like that Dr. Manners. Are you all right?” She eyed my stocking feet with confusion and then searched my face. “The ghosts are after you, aren’t they? Don’t think they don’t know about you. We don’t cotton to perverts around here.”
    So—even little old ladies had read that stupid article. This could be a very long four days.
     

Chapter 4—COWBOY HEAVEN
     
     “ Are you sure you’re all right?” the old woman’s hand was still firmly clamped to my arm. She continued to stare at my naked feet.
    I gave her a clueless smile. Pretending I knew nothing about the Post article was probably the best way to handle the whole mess. I regained custody of my arm and fished my traveling flats from my bag.
    “ I’m fine—except for being insensitive, apparently. But the poor boy was dying in there. I only wanted to help.” I stepped into the flats. They felt comforting. I looked around for Ernesto, but he seemed to have escaped to the lobby.
    “ The boy was dying in there?” The woman gave an anxious look at the door to the Ponderosa Lounge. “I’m Mitzi Boggs Bailey, the poet. If he’s not all right, I could call 911.” She pulled a phone from the pocket of her voluminous cardigan.
    I tried to make an escape. “I don’t think his situation is that dire. I just wanted to apologize. He may still be in the lobby. If I could catch him…”
    “ Gabriella isn’t all right,” said the woman. “Jackie Collins canceled. Gaby hates it when celebrities cancel on her. Nobody did that when she was a famous TV star.”
    I gave her what I hoped was an understanding nod. The conference