West 47th Read Online Free Page A
Author: Gerald A Browne
engine.
Mrs. Kalali was quickly out and bound for the house via the connecting breezeway.
Mr. Kalali waited for Sherman to open the limousine door for him. He stepped out with his shoes in hand. For the last mile or so heâd tried to put them on but his feet were swollen.
He had Sherman hold the shoes while he took out his billfold. It wasnât fat because it contained only brand-new hundreds. The bills stuck together. Mr. Kalali wet his thumb and first finger and counted twice.
Eight of the hundreds onto the flat of Shermanâs palm. Mr. Kalali expected fifty change. Sherman didnât have it. Mr. Kalali reclaimed one of his virgin hundreds and said heâd owe Sherman the fifty until next payday.
Sherman wanted to say no way fucker. Instead he nodded and ducked beneath the grinding descent of the garage door, hurried to his car and was gone.
Mrs. Kalali, meanwhile, had entered the house and turned off the security system. She found a note from the live-in housekeeper on the kitchen counter. A lie about a family emergency and a promise to return Monday morning.
By then, Mr. Kalali, carrying his shoes with his billfold in one, was in the breezeway headed for the kitchen door that had been left open for him.
Floyd timed his move perfectly, stepped out of the darkness to be directly behind Mr. Kalali. Did so with such stealth that Mr. Kalali wasnât aware until he felt the pistol jab his spine.
Mr. Kalali started, bowed his back and turned enough to see Floydâs black face.
âKeep going,â Floyd told him.
Mr. Kalali felt legless. It seemed he levitated into the kitchen.
Mrs. Kalali saw Floyd and his weapon and realized what was occurring. She stiffened. Her breath caught, and when she released it, an apprehensive female sound came from her. As though it was called for. She studied Floyd for a moment, then decided it would be best that she look away.
The others came in.
Tracy and the white girl.
They were also armed. The white girl had a Mach 10 machine pistol. It looked too heavy for her.
Floyd hadnât been able to reach out for Corky or anyone else whoâd ever worked, and rather than phone Ralph to say it wasnât going to come off because they were shorthanded, it struck him that maybe the girl could drive, just drive. She was all for it at first, but when Floyd explained the work to her, she didnât want to. Not just drive. She wouldnât go along at all unless she could play a more important part.
The girl, whose most recent one name was Peaches, went back and forth about that with Floyd, but, finally, Floyd gave in and it was settled that the driving would be done by Dexter, who didnât care one way or the other. It was also agreed that having Peaches along was something theyâd keep from Ralph.
On the drive theyâd played a couple of Toni Braxtons, smoked some boo and Peaches had gotten some laughs out of them with stories about four years ago when she was a titless fourteen in Phoenix passing for a flat-chested twenty. Between stories she sucked on Floydâs second finger after alternately guiding it into a pint bottle of Southern Comfort and herself.
Theyâd had no problem finding the Far Hills area or the Kalali house or which wall belonged to the rear of it. Dexter had left them off and would return to the spot frequently to see if they were there to be picked up.
The wall had been easy, not very high and no barbed wire, spikes or anything, and the rear grounds couldnât have been more accommodating: unlighted, wooded, overgrown with brush and landscaped with mature shrubs from the wall to two-thirds of the way to the house.
Now they were in the kitchen, the thieves and the Kalalis, weapons and edginess. Mr. Kalali was still carrying his shoes. Peaches noticed the wallet protruding from the one. She plucked the wallet out and was delighted with the nice new hundreds it contained. About twenty. She had on lightweight latex rubber
Mrs. Kalali was quickly out and bound for the house via the connecting breezeway.
Mr. Kalali waited for Sherman to open the limousine door for him. He stepped out with his shoes in hand. For the last mile or so heâd tried to put them on but his feet were swollen.
He had Sherman hold the shoes while he took out his billfold. It wasnât fat because it contained only brand-new hundreds. The bills stuck together. Mr. Kalali wet his thumb and first finger and counted twice.
Eight of the hundreds onto the flat of Shermanâs palm. Mr. Kalali expected fifty change. Sherman didnât have it. Mr. Kalali reclaimed one of his virgin hundreds and said heâd owe Sherman the fifty until next payday.
Sherman wanted to say no way fucker. Instead he nodded and ducked beneath the grinding descent of the garage door, hurried to his car and was gone.
Mrs. Kalali, meanwhile, had entered the house and turned off the security system. She found a note from the live-in housekeeper on the kitchen counter. A lie about a family emergency and a promise to return Monday morning.
By then, Mr. Kalali, carrying his shoes with his billfold in one, was in the breezeway headed for the kitchen door that had been left open for him.
Floyd timed his move perfectly, stepped out of the darkness to be directly behind Mr. Kalali. Did so with such stealth that Mr. Kalali wasnât aware until he felt the pistol jab his spine.
Mr. Kalali started, bowed his back and turned enough to see Floydâs black face.
âKeep going,â Floyd told him.
Mr. Kalali felt legless. It seemed he levitated into the kitchen.
Mrs. Kalali saw Floyd and his weapon and realized what was occurring. She stiffened. Her breath caught, and when she released it, an apprehensive female sound came from her. As though it was called for. She studied Floyd for a moment, then decided it would be best that she look away.
The others came in.
Tracy and the white girl.
They were also armed. The white girl had a Mach 10 machine pistol. It looked too heavy for her.
Floyd hadnât been able to reach out for Corky or anyone else whoâd ever worked, and rather than phone Ralph to say it wasnât going to come off because they were shorthanded, it struck him that maybe the girl could drive, just drive. She was all for it at first, but when Floyd explained the work to her, she didnât want to. Not just drive. She wouldnât go along at all unless she could play a more important part.
The girl, whose most recent one name was Peaches, went back and forth about that with Floyd, but, finally, Floyd gave in and it was settled that the driving would be done by Dexter, who didnât care one way or the other. It was also agreed that having Peaches along was something theyâd keep from Ralph.
On the drive theyâd played a couple of Toni Braxtons, smoked some boo and Peaches had gotten some laughs out of them with stories about four years ago when she was a titless fourteen in Phoenix passing for a flat-chested twenty. Between stories she sucked on Floydâs second finger after alternately guiding it into a pint bottle of Southern Comfort and herself.
Theyâd had no problem finding the Far Hills area or the Kalali house or which wall belonged to the rear of it. Dexter had left them off and would return to the spot frequently to see if they were there to be picked up.
The wall had been easy, not very high and no barbed wire, spikes or anything, and the rear grounds couldnât have been more accommodating: unlighted, wooded, overgrown with brush and landscaped with mature shrubs from the wall to two-thirds of the way to the house.
Now they were in the kitchen, the thieves and the Kalalis, weapons and edginess. Mr. Kalali was still carrying his shoes. Peaches noticed the wallet protruding from the one. She plucked the wallet out and was delighted with the nice new hundreds it contained. About twenty. She had on lightweight latex rubber
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