Way of a Wanton Read Online Free

 
    Laughter bubbled from the little gathering a few feet beyond us, then Douglas King detached himself from the others and walked up to the bar. He sat down and patted Helen's thigh, looking at me.  
    â€œMix me a drink,” he said.  
    I didn't like the flat way he said it, as if it were an order, but I let it pass. “What are you drinking?”  
    â€œScotch on the rocks. You're the private eye, huh?”  
    â€œThat's right. Only we're seldom called private eyes.” I mixed the drink and put it in front of him. He grunted. Just for the hell of it, I grunted.  
    Helen said, “I think I'll slip into my suit.” She gave me a big smile when she said it and I winked at her. King grunted. Maybe he had a pain.  
    Helen walked off and left me and Bruta together. I finished my drink and picked up my trunks. Some of the others had changed into swim suits and I wanted to be around for whatever the hell was supposed to happen out there at the pool. I stepped from behind the bar as King tossed off his drink and plunked the glass down on the bar top.  
    â€œMix me another,” he said. Same flat tone again.  
    I grinned at him. “Sorry,” I said pleasantly. “There's a new bartender on now.”  
    He looked squarely at me and said softly, “Mix me another one, anyway.”  
    He was still sitting on the stool, all nine hundred pounds of him swung around a little toward me, and we were looking straight at each other. Obviously he was pushing this beyond the point of light chatter, and there were several things I could have done. I could have stared at him for several minutes to see which of us would look away first—which seemed pretty stupid—or I could get nasty, or I could clobber him one. I was getting damned unhappy with this boy, but I'm not a guy who goes around looking for trouble. In my business I get enough without looking for it. And maybe the guy did have a pain.  
    So I said, “Let's not be silly, King,” and walked away. He didn't spring on my back and bite me, so I went over toward the piano, where Swallow and Raul were talking to the outstanding woman in the room. Behind them Genova was rapidly shoving papers into his brief case. The girl had her back in the curve of the piano top, her elbows resting on the polished black surface behind her, and I added an inch to my unofficial estimate.  
    She glanced at me as I came up, then in apparent answer to something Raul had said she laughed merrily and replied, “All right, Raul. I won't be angry.”  
    I cleared my throat.  
    Swallow said, “Well, as long as you're here, how about a drink?”  
    â€œAll right. Only one, though. I still think it's a dirty trick.”  
    I cleared my throat very loudly.  
    Swallow said, “I shall make it myself,” and headed for the bar. Big of him.  
    I dug Raul in the ribs. When he turned toward me I said, “Hello, pal. What's new, pal?”  
    He grinned. “I've been expecting you,” he said. Then he turned to the girl and said, “Sherry, this is one of my old, evil friends. He's a private investigator named Shell Scott, and not as tough as he looks. Shell, this is Sherry.”  
    â€œHello, Mr. Scott,” she said, and her voice was as soft as a whispered “Kiss me.” She added, “I remember you. You're the man who was following me.”  
    â€œFor years,” I said. “And call me Shell.” I might have said any number of other things, but this was the first good chance I'd had to take a look at her face; I took it, and it kept me fully occupied for a while. She was only about five-four or so, and she was looking up at me from big eyes that were the clear blue of sky after rain. Her lips were full, soft, and red as the edge of a rainbow, and turned up mischievously at the corners now in the start of a smile. Silky hair, the rich color of dark