The Straight Man - Roger L Simon Read Online Free

wasn't talking about Mike or Otis but about a red-headed woman of
about thirty who was visible through the door standing on the stage
of The Combat Zone, trying desperately to reach an audience that
looked like a combination of bored Vals and tourists from Iowa.
    "So," she was saying, "sometimes I
think I'm a minority of one. My cause is so obscure I couldn't get a
terrorist to kidnap me if I walked naked through the streets of
Damascus."
    There was a slight ripple of laughter and a tinkling
of glasses. The woman shrugged as she reached for a water pitcher.
"You know why the Canucks call us Pepsis, don't you? We're half
flat, bottled up, and grin like idiots when they step on us."
    "What kind of accent is that?" I asked.
    "Her? What are you—an idiot? She's a Pepsi.
French-Canadian! Don't you read the papers anymore? René Lévesque
stepped down. It's the end of the Parti Québecois, the separatist
movement. That's what she's talking about."
    "Oh." No wonder the Vals weren't laughing.
I doubted the Iowans found it very funny either.
    I stepped closer to the door and took another look at
her. She was dressed elegantly in a simple blue sweater and black
leather pants that showed off the kind of slim hips you wanted to
slide your arm around and crush into your body. Sonya was right. She
was attractive. But right now she didn't look very happy. In fact,
she looked like she was laying a first-class El Bombo.
    "What're you doing here, Wine? Amateur Night's
Monday."
    I hadn't seen him in about five years, but I didn't
have to look to recognize the voice of Art Koontz of homicide. When I
did, however, I was surprised at how good he looked—fifteen pounds
lighter, with stylish clothes and a haircut out of Gentleman's
Quarterly. He used to be a dead ringer for Popeye Doyle in The French
Connection. These days everybody was going upscale.
    " I didn't know you were a friend of comedy,
Inspector."
    " Everybody likes a few laughs, Wine. Of course,
it's hard to keep up with you hippies turned yuppie. You don't know
who's driving the BMW these days. Is it true that sushi's out—or
have I been misinformed by California magazine?"
    " You don't look like you're doing badly yourself
either, Koontz. Nice suit. What is it? Armani?"
    "Gianni Versace."
    I whistled. "The boys in Parker Center'll think
you're on the take, you keep wearing duds like that." He
frowned, but I smiled back pleasantly. Actually it was kind of nice
to see the old bastard after all this time. And it saved me a trip
downtown. He could only have been there for one reason, and as I'm
sure he knew, the same was true for me.
    "How about a drink?" I pointed to the bar
of The Combat Zone where the French-Canadian was still trying gamely
to make a dent in her audience. "The Evian's on me. Or do you
prefer Pellegrino?"
    "Bourbon. Bourbon with no water."
    I guided him toward the bar before he changed his
mind. Sonya was right beside us. Koontz eyed her suspiciously.
    "This is my aunt Sonya Lieberman."
    "Your aunt?" He made a face of disbelief
and turned to me directly. "Look, I don't know who your client
is—though I could guess. But if you're out to make a murder case, I
can tell you straight off the bat, forget it. Ptak did this all by
himself."
    I had to agree it certainly looked that way.
According to the papers, he had checked into the penthouse suite at
six-oh-five that evening and took the elevator directly upstairs.At
precisely nine-thirty-two, three hours and twenty-seven minutes
later, he was on his way down by the express route. The elevator gave
directly onto the suite foyer and the operator, a Mr. Sanchez,
insisted he brought no one up or down between those times.
Furthermore, the  bellhop, a Mr. Nastase, said that, as far as
he knew, no one was in the suite when he escorted Mr. Ptak up with
one suitcase. And he had made a relatively complete survey of the
premises since Ptak wanted a guided tour of all the perks of the
suite (projection TV with VCR and quadraphonic