Free The Easy Sin by Jon Cleary Page B

time. “No-o.”
    â€œThen we put up with what we've got. You could have chosen much worse than Russ.”
    Romy pulled her plate back in front of her, picked at the crab salad again. “I still could cut his balls off.”
    A boy about seven paused by their table. “Whose balls?”
    â€œYours. Get lost,” said Romy and started to laugh. Lisa joined in.
    Diners at other tables looked at them, two very attractive women sharing a happy day out on their own.
    At a far table a mother said to her seven-year-old son, “What did the lady say to you?”
    â€œShe said she'd cut my balls off.”
    â€œServes you right for speaking to strange women,” said his father. “Remember that, when you grow up.”
    He looked across the restaurant and wondered what sort of exciting sex life those two good-looking women led.
    â€œ What are you looking at?” said his wife.
    â€œThe ducks,” he said and went back to his long black coffee, which did nothing for the libido.

3
    I
    MALONE AND Sheryl Dallen delivered Kylie Doolan back to the Magee apartment, where Paula Decker was waiting for them. Malone had phoned her before leaving Minto and she had sounded as if she was jumping at the chance to being involved in the Magee case again.
    â€œI'll move in with Miss Doolan,” she said, looking around the apartment like a prospective buyer. “My boss okayed it.”
    â€œNobody asked me,” said Kylie.
    â€œMiss Doolan,” said Malone; his patience with women had been long learned, “this is for your protection. You may still be on the kidnap list.”
    She stared at him as if he were threatening her; then she abruptly turned and went into one of the bedrooms. It was the wrong room. A moment later she came out and went into the main bedroom.
    Malone looked at Sheryl and Paula Decker and shrugged. “Don't let her out of your sight, Paula. I'm going to make a call.”
    â€œThe toilet's that way,” said Sheryl, nodding.
    â€œA phone call,” he said and saw her grinning. She was enjoying working with him and he with her, but he would have to see she kept her place. Maybe the word had already got around that he was on his way out of Homicide. The Police Service had always been secretive, even about official business, and the times had not changed.
    He went into the kitchen. The chalked outline of Juanita Marcos' body had been scrubbed out; the kitchen looked almost too spick and span, like a magazine advertisement, to have ever been used; all that was missing was the copper-bottomed saucepan that had killed Juanita Marcos. The ransom message on the kitchen's computer had not been scrubbed out, but it was almost irrelevant now, like last week's grocery list.
    He checked his notebook, dialled a Harbord number, a beach suburb north of the harbour. “Hello? Blackie? Inspector Malone.”
    â€œG'day, Mr. Malone.” Blackie Ovens had been a stand-over man, an iron-bar expert, who had worked for Jack Aldwych for almost fifty years, one way or another. He was now valet, butler, chauffeur and general handyman to the old retired criminal boss. “The boss ain't here. He goes in once a week to the office, to talk with Jack Junior.”
    â€œHow is he, Blackie? I haven't seen him in almost a year.” He and the old crim were almost friends, as cops and criminals often are, but never social friends.
    â€œHe's getting old, Mr. Malone. But ain't we all? He's really slowed down, spends all his time reading. Reading books. He sent me out the other day to buy—whatyoucallthemthings? Bookmarks. Like he used to send me out once to buy bullets. Don't tell him I said that.”
    â€œYou know me, Blackie. I've never grassed on a mate in my life.”
    â€œWe're mates?”
    â€œWe are now, Blackie. Phone him and tell him I'm coming. They still in the AMP Tower?”
    â€œYeah. Up there with all the respectable ones.” He laughed, dry