Rock & Roll Homicide Read Online Free

in Russian. I retrieved my movie rental card from my wallet. As I reached out to hand it to him I said, “You keep waving that gun at me and you’ll not only get evicted, you’ll get deported.” When I said this he pointed the gun away from me for the first time. I made my move.
    You already know that I’m a man of many talents: detective, musician, and dispenser of psychological advice. So, it’s completely understandable if you mistakenly assume I’m an expert at karate. Unfortunately, the only black belt I own is currently holding up my pants. I developed my best move in my childhood as a result of defending myself against my sister. She is two years older, but I passed her in height and weight when I turned seven. In spite of her lack of stature, Lisa packed exceptional punching power. If I teased her, took stuff out of her room or any number of minor transgressions, I could count on her to come in with a hard right to the breadbasket. When she first started doing this Mom was appalled, but Dad recognized it as a way for her to fend off unwanted advances as she transitioned into her teenage years. The bottom line was that Lisa could pummel me to tears, but I could only learn how to block, evade or trap her punches. Being a survivalist at heart, I became quite proficient at sidesteps and trapping her right hand under my left arm, like a boxer tying up an opponent with a clinch. I also learned the effectiveness of a good body punch and have first-hand knowledge of exactly where such a punch will do the most damage.
    So, when the Russian pointed the gun to his side, I trapped his gun hand under my arm and, in one motion, brought a power punch up into his solar plexus. His knees buckled and I shouldered him backward two steps into the doorjamb behind him. He banged his head hard on the corner of the doorway and his lights went out. I then saw Koflanovich’s door open part way and heard the unmistakable sound of large dogs growling. I was on the other side of that walnut door faster than a heavy metal drummer on double-espresso.
    As I exited Cerise Records I ran into the receptionist in the hallway. “Did you put that stuff in my hair?” she asked angrily.
        “Are you kidding? Most of the time I don’t even kiss goodnight on the first date,” I replied without breaking stride toward the exit.
    By the time I got back to my Acura NXS, reality had set in. My heart could have kept time for a drum and bugle corps. My hands were shaking and I was too light-headed to drive. I sat in my car with the windows up and the air-conditioning on full-blast. I kept visualizing myself lying in the hallway of Cerise Records being fitted for a toe tag by an Assistant Coroner. After about ten minutes I calmed down enough to navigate over to the Dali Lama Yo Mama, Bernie’s nightclub. It was only 5:30 PM and the night clubbers wouldn’t be out for several hours, but Bernie opened up at 5:00 to catch the Happy Hour crowd from the nearby office buildings. I sat on a barstool near the server station, hoping to connect with a familiar face.
    I ordered a double vodka gimlet from a bartender I vaguely remembered as a rookie back when I was leaving the music scene. I’m normally not a big drinker. I had to deal with too many drunks as an entertainer to ever want to join their ranks. But, I needed to steady my hands before my chat with Bernie.
    “Hey stranger, I thought you got married and moved to the valley,” said a voice I recognized, from directly behind me.
    “Gag me with a spoon,” I responded with a Valley Girl inflection. “And it wasn’t me who was engaged last time we talked. What happened to that Matthew McConaughey wannabe you were hooked up with, Jasmine?” I asked.
    “I married him,” she said.
    “Oops,” I said, “I always thought Matthew McConaughey was pretty cool.”
    She replied, “Matthew is very cool. But that dick-head I married is history.”
    “I’m sorry. Is that why you’re waiting on the