Free Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 06 by Maggody in Manhattan Page A

the slumbering blackness of Cotter’s Ridge, an owl hooted. It wasn’t a monk, but it was the best Maggody could do on short notice.
     
    “Jesus!” Marvel said as he kicked the side of the station wagon. “What kinda cars are they makin’ in Detroit these days? No wonder the Japanese are running us off the road. Jesus!”
    He took a knapsack and a carton of milk from the car, kicked it once more, and took off down the road, asking himself why he even bothered to steal American cars. There wasn’t anything patriotic about having to walk on his own two feet like an army recruit.
    He drained the milk, crumpled the carton, and hurled it at a squirrel at the base of a tree. “Have yourself a feast of cardboard, my fuzzy little man.”
    The squirrel, having chanced into a scattering of cracker crumbs, failed to acknowledge the missile as it sailed over him and landed in a mass of poison ivy.
    Marvel continued to hike along the rocky road, determined to have a fine time and not to think about what his mama would do when he got home. He still couldn’t believe that Dwayne and Terence had fingered him for the holdup at the liquor store—and that not one of the lily-white, myopic librarians could back up his story. All he’d gotten in return for three hours of reading up on dead presidents was a warrant for his arrest—and a sudden desire to visit Monticello. Maybe Tommy Jefferson might have some suggestions suggestions how to go about keeping his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
     
    “Could we get back to the story?” I said, amazed that I could speak so clearly through clenched teeth. “What happened last night?”
    Ruby Bee lay on the bed, fanning herself with a church bulletin from her handbag. I almost felt sorry for her. Her dress was stained and wrinkled, and her hose looked as though she’d staggered through brambles. Her face was pale, her hair chaotic, her eyes pink and vague. “It was terrible, just terrible,” she said wearily. “The only thing that might help is a cold can of soda from that machine by the elevator.”
    Estelle sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Ruby Bee’s arm. “Arly’s on her way lickety-split to fetch you one. You just lie still and rest. Nobody’s gonna pester you to talk when anyone with an ounce of decency can see you’re smack out of spit.”
    As I said, almost sorry for her. I grabbed some change from the dresser and marched down the hall to buy the damn soda. Okay, so she was entitled to play the martyr, but so was I and nobody appreciated it. The airline ticket had cost me all of my savings and most of next month’s salary—if I got it. I’d stuffed clothes in a carryon and driven like a charioteer to the airport to catch a plane with ten seconds to spare. I’d endured a cramped commuter flight, only to race to the opposite end of the terminal to catch a larger plane and be smothered for nearly three hours by Toledo Ted. I was in the middle of the one place I didn’t want to be, and there was no way to ignore its omnipresence outside the hotel.
    I jammed coins into the slot, pushed a button, and bent down to get the damn can out of the tray. No damn can rolled into reach. I banged the plastic facade, which in no way resembled my exhusband’s face. “You sorry son of a bitch,” I growled, pulling back my foot to kick it like it’d never been kicked before.
    “I wouldn’t do that,” said a morose voice from behind me.
    I looked over my shoulder at the man in the doorway. Despite his shabby bathrobe and bare, hairy ankles above slippers, he was intriguing enough to stop me from breaking a toe or two. The bathrobe hung oddly, and after a moment, I realized it was draped over a sling supporting his arm.
    “Are you Durmond Pilverman? ” I asked.
    He nodded, smiling just a bit. “I’m sorry to say I am. Were I an employee of this hotel, I would take it upon myself to kick that machine for you. However, I am merely a guest, and all I can do is