The Brush Off Read Online Free

waking up to my smart mouth. “Listen Reyn… peligroso …to wonder.” He paused with a tortured groan, and I tried not to think what had caused that. Or who. My hard-up-woman imagination filled in the blanks as he let out another heavy sigh before saying, “Be careful.”
    I knew that comment was meant for his companion, who was doing something likely featured on the Playboy Channel, so I didn’t respond. He was quiet for a moment, and I thought he’d hung up or perhaps had been otherwise distracted. Then he whispered, “Take care of what’s mine. The proof…it’s there…in the pudding…”
    It wasn’t like Ricardo to use a corny cliché, but I didn’t give it a passing thought. Then.
    Suddenly, I was sleepy again, and my back was clutching up. “Ricardo, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have my own business to run. I like my little business. It’s not much, but it’s mine. And there was that ‘black bean’ comment of yours…”
    A wheeze interrupted my independent-woman lecture. “Promise…you’ll…” he choked out.
    I wondered for the first time if Ricardo were sick. I might as well humor him. He probably wouldn’t remember he’d even called by morning.
    “Sure, Ricardo. I’ll take care of everything for you. Now, I’ve gotta go get some beauty sleep. I need a helluva lot more just to look half as good as you do.”
    I waited for his reply and got none. Patience isn’t one of my virtues and certainly isn’t a word I even understand in the middle of the night with canine halitosis breathing on me, particularly while talking to a drunk, high, crazy, or horny once-upon-a-time boss, while my back was thrown out.
    “Good night, Ricardo. Sleep tight.”
    I threw the handset back into its cradle, eased gently back into the bed (this seemed less excruciating than my earlier flop), and pulled the covers up to my chin. By the time I shut my eyelids, I was drifting back to Dreamland, hoping to avoid the tool-wielding Sandman this time, unless he had some X-rated plans for that tool that involved me.
     
    The next time the phone rang, no dreams interfered, and I was able to recognize the ring for what it was. My eyelids wouldn’t peel open, though, and I had to roll over onto my side to do the blind man’s grope for the handset. My back felt pretty darn good, I noted with pleasure. That extra slab of Ben Gay, applied with a back scratcher stabbed into a sponge, must have done the trick.
    “Hello,” I answered cheerily.
    An unfamiliar baritone rumbled some indistinguishable rush of words into my ear, made more indistinguishable by the fact that Beaujolais was sticking her big dog tongue into my other ear. I swatted her away just as I heard, “And who is this?”
    My spirits plummeted. An anonymous crank first thing in the morning. That was worse than being awakened by a familiar one in the middle of the night. I sat up gingerly and called in my invisible reinforcements.
    “Claude!” I screeched, half into the handset and half out. Pretty convincing, I thought.
    “Please tone it down, ma’am,” warned the caller with a decidedly impolite inflection on the polite term. “Your name’s Claude?”
    “No. Claude’s my honey.”
    “Can you tell me, was it you or Claude who talked to someone at Ricardo’s Realm on Broadway last night?”
    Words caught in my throat for a moment. This was not a voice I recognized as someone who worked for Ricardo—too much bass, if you get my meaning. He never hired anyone who’d compete for the affections of the ladies. Yet there was something professional about his tone.
    I’m rarely at a loss for words, so I recovered quickly. “Who wants to know?”
    I think my directness set him back for a moment. There was a bit of a pause where I hoped I’d persuaded him to set the receiver back in the cradle. No such luck. “I need to know who called Ricardo last night, ma’am.”
    “Who’s ‘I’?” By now I was pissed off, but so was he, even if he was trying