Free Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) by Joel Canfield Page A

well pleased.
    “Where the FUCK have you been, Fuckhead?”
    Only two fucks? That was hardly worth going down forty floors.
    “I got drunk night before last. I bought a laptop. I researched. Last night, I had dinner with someone connected with my case.”
    “Who is she?”
    “Did I specify a gender?”
    “Am I wrong?”
    “Are you ever?”
    A sigh.
    “I just miss you.”
    I was getting tenderness?
    “Jules, we never see each other that much during the week anyway.”
    “You’re not in the greater metropolitan area. I don’t like that.”
    “I’m not having sex with other women. I’ve mostly just been freaked out, okay?”
    “What the fuck is it with this case?” She sounded worried for the first time.
    “You don’t want to know, but don’t get concerned. I think everything’s all right now.”
    As we talked, I used the television remote in the room to check out of the hotel – and, of course, kept it all on my new Mr. Barry Filer-issued credit card. Very easy. Thanks to technology, we would soon never have to converse with any other humans again. Then we could all just stay home and comfortably drown in our own filth.
    “Are you coming back today?” Jules said with more than a little urgency.
    “No…I’m going to be gone probably a few more days.”
    “FUCK WHAT FUCK FUCK FUCK???!!”
    Okay, the alley was a good call.
    “Look, I have shit to do. I don’t get mad when you go to work.”
    “Goddammit. Where are you going?”
    “I’m not on a secure line.”
    “Oh, Jesus, really? After all this time, you’re going to pretend to be serious about what you’re doing?”
    “I can’t talk about it.”
    “I’ll blow you when you get home?”
    “Still not talking.”
    A pause. This was a strange conversation and I was about to find out why.
    “I have enough.”
    I stood still in the middle of the room.
    “Enough? Enough what?”
    She paused, then it all came out in a rush.
    “Enough money, doofus. I made an appointment with the doctor, the one who does the vocal cord surgery. I think I can cover the deductible, the co-pay, whatever the fuck Obamacare is gonna make me cough up, and get the operation. I think…maybe I’ll be able to sing again.”
    It sounded like those last two words made her cry a little.
    Wow. No wonder she was so edgy.
    She had been waiting for this day for years, ever since her singing voice went out in the middle of a gig. Back when she was 22 and just out of college, she left Kansas and came to New York to be a Broadway star, not to wait on dick lawyers who only saw her as a paperwork receptacle. Apparently, she had a genuine talent. Even had a write-up in The New York Times back in 2009 about her cabaret act. I wouldn’t know. I only found her after she lost her singing voice. But I was curious what she really sounded like when digging into some Cole Porter.
    “That’s great news, Jules.”
    “Yeah. Except I won’t be able to talk for two weeks after surgery. At ALL.”
    “That’s more great news, baby.”
    “Ha ha, douchebag.” Another pause, then in a small voice. “Will you help take care of me?”
    “Uh…yeah, nursing isn’t really in my skill-set, but you can crash at my place if you want.”
    “I’ll do that thing you like me to do with my vagina.”
    “So many great offers. This isn’t a Groupon, is it?
    “Fuck off.”
    “When are you seeing the doctor?”
    “In two days. Wish me some fucking luck.”
    “You got it. Now wish me some fucking luck.”
    “You got it. Don’t get fucking killed.”
    “What? How the hell would that happen?”
    “I don’t know. It just popped in my head.”
    An uncomfortable pause.
    Jesus. I had to remember – she was a fucking witch. 
    We acted like nothing had happened and said our goodbyes, then I made it out to the rental with my Banana Republic bags, feeling like Don Draper on his last televised road trip, and took off west for Kentucky. It would be an all-day drive, which left me too much time to