Touchy and Feely (Sissy Sawyer Mysteries) Read Online Free
Author: Graham Masterton
the North.
Trucks and SUVs sped past him, their headlights gleaming dimly through the snow, but none of them stopped. Maybe they couldn’t see him, but he couldn’t stand too close to the highway because every vehicle was spurting out filthy gray slush and he was soaked already. His flappy hat was sodden and there was melted snow leaking down the back of his neck. He tried his best to protect his folder but even that was getting buckled.
Mind telling me what you’re doing here, kid? he asked himself. You could be back home, where at least it’s warm .
But he could see the second-story apartment on 111th Street as clearly as if he had a miniature TV set in his head. The Christmas tree would be propped up, wrecked, in one corner, where his stepfather Bruno had pushed his mother into it. Bruno would be sprawled in his tilted three-legged armchair, already drunk, his greasy gray pompadour sticking up like a spavined cockatoo. His mother Rita would be lying in bed sobbing and praying and nursing her broken ribs, so there wouldn’t be anything to eat, and the kitchen sink would be heaped with estofada -encrusted dishes from two days ago. There wouldn’t be any sign of his younger brother Michael except for a dirty unmade bed with a sheet like the Indian rope-trick: Michael would be out with his crackhead friends in some derelict building smoking anything that could be made to smolder and drinking stolen tequila. His sister Rosa would be lying on her bed with one heavy leg raised in the air so that her crimson satin crotch was exposed, polishing her toenails purple and complaining loudly about her boyfriend Carlos he’s such a dumb vomiticious dumbass. Rosa only knew three adjectives: dumb, vomiticious, and cool. Feely knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives.
You didn’t need travel-bags when you knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives. But a warm pair of gloves would have been welcome.
Another semi bellowed past, with Coca-Cola emblazoned on the side of it, like the TV ads. Happy Christmas, thought Feely. What had happened to Santa and the shiny lights and the rosy-cheeked children? The snow was falling so furiously now that he couldn’t see more than thirty yards down the highway.
Feely’s favorite adjective was ‘gregarious.’ It brought to mind friendly people clustering around to give each other cheer. He said ‘gregarious,’ over and over, and out here on Route 6 it made him feel as if he wasn’t entirely alone.
A Warning From Beyond
T revor stepped into the hallway and sniffed twice. ‘You’ve been smoking !’
‘Have I?’ said Sissy, in mock surprise. ‘I can’t smell anything.’
‘Momma . . . really. I brought you some Chase’s Cherry Mashes, too.’
‘What? As a reward? I’m not a dog , Trevor, and if I want to smoke, I will.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. You know darn well you shouldn’t.’ He handed her the bag of Cherry Mashes and took off his coat.
Sissy peered into the bag. ‘These are just as bad for me as cigarettes. You should bring me fresh fruit if you’re worried about my heart.’
Trevor followed her into the living room. He looked so much like his father, sloping-shouldered and plumpish, with chipmunk cheeks, but for some reason he hadn’t inherited his father’s geniality. When Gerry walked into a room, people used to smile, even before he had said hallo. But Trevor had a way of blinking at people that immediately made them feel uneasy, as if they had a fleck of spinach on their front tooth, or there was a drip swinging from the end of their nose.
He had never dressed as smartly as his father, either. Today he was wearing a sagging Hershey-brown cardigan with wooden buttons, and baggy tan corduroy pants. Gerry would have told him that he looked like a feedbag.
‘How about some tea?’ asked Sissy.
Trevor was blinking at the cards on the coffee table. ‘You’ve been telling fortunes, too.’
‘Don’t worry,
Trucks and SUVs sped past him, their headlights gleaming dimly through the snow, but none of them stopped. Maybe they couldn’t see him, but he couldn’t stand too close to the highway because every vehicle was spurting out filthy gray slush and he was soaked already. His flappy hat was sodden and there was melted snow leaking down the back of his neck. He tried his best to protect his folder but even that was getting buckled.
Mind telling me what you’re doing here, kid? he asked himself. You could be back home, where at least it’s warm .
But he could see the second-story apartment on 111th Street as clearly as if he had a miniature TV set in his head. The Christmas tree would be propped up, wrecked, in one corner, where his stepfather Bruno had pushed his mother into it. Bruno would be sprawled in his tilted three-legged armchair, already drunk, his greasy gray pompadour sticking up like a spavined cockatoo. His mother Rita would be lying in bed sobbing and praying and nursing her broken ribs, so there wouldn’t be anything to eat, and the kitchen sink would be heaped with estofada -encrusted dishes from two days ago. There wouldn’t be any sign of his younger brother Michael except for a dirty unmade bed with a sheet like the Indian rope-trick: Michael would be out with his crackhead friends in some derelict building smoking anything that could be made to smolder and drinking stolen tequila. His sister Rosa would be lying on her bed with one heavy leg raised in the air so that her crimson satin crotch was exposed, polishing her toenails purple and complaining loudly about her boyfriend Carlos he’s such a dumb vomiticious dumbass. Rosa only knew three adjectives: dumb, vomiticious, and cool. Feely knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives.
You didn’t need travel-bags when you knew four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three adjectives. But a warm pair of gloves would have been welcome.
Another semi bellowed past, with Coca-Cola emblazoned on the side of it, like the TV ads. Happy Christmas, thought Feely. What had happened to Santa and the shiny lights and the rosy-cheeked children? The snow was falling so furiously now that he couldn’t see more than thirty yards down the highway.
Feely’s favorite adjective was ‘gregarious.’ It brought to mind friendly people clustering around to give each other cheer. He said ‘gregarious,’ over and over, and out here on Route 6 it made him feel as if he wasn’t entirely alone.
A Warning From Beyond
T revor stepped into the hallway and sniffed twice. ‘You’ve been smoking !’
‘Have I?’ said Sissy, in mock surprise. ‘I can’t smell anything.’
‘Momma . . . really. I brought you some Chase’s Cherry Mashes, too.’
‘What? As a reward? I’m not a dog , Trevor, and if I want to smoke, I will.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. You know darn well you shouldn’t.’ He handed her the bag of Cherry Mashes and took off his coat.
Sissy peered into the bag. ‘These are just as bad for me as cigarettes. You should bring me fresh fruit if you’re worried about my heart.’
Trevor followed her into the living room. He looked so much like his father, sloping-shouldered and plumpish, with chipmunk cheeks, but for some reason he hadn’t inherited his father’s geniality. When Gerry walked into a room, people used to smile, even before he had said hallo. But Trevor had a way of blinking at people that immediately made them feel uneasy, as if they had a fleck of spinach on their front tooth, or there was a drip swinging from the end of their nose.
He had never dressed as smartly as his father, either. Today he was wearing a sagging Hershey-brown cardigan with wooden buttons, and baggy tan corduroy pants. Gerry would have told him that he looked like a feedbag.
‘How about some tea?’ asked Sissy.
Trevor was blinking at the cards on the coffee table. ‘You’ve been telling fortunes, too.’
‘Don’t worry,
Readers choose
Aleya Michelle
Brad Taylor
Rachel Van Dyken
Jeanne Thornton
Campbell Armstrong
Diane Capri
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Mia Bishop
Lindsay Paige, Mary Smith
Elizabeth Van Zandt