Free Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 16 - Poison Blonde by Loren D. Estleman

Gilia at Cobo. The hand he strummed the strings with, out on the end of the dock, was swollen and as red as Lizzie Borden’s. He blew on it and tortured another cat.
    “I did. You want to make something of it, or would you rather go back to the Hyatt and practice ‘Stairway to Heaven’?”
    This came from a slender technician in Orange County Correctional Facility coveralls and a Dodgers cap with a curled bill. A pair of mirrored sunglasses called attention to her Castilian cheekbones. Someone ought to tell them that eyeglasses only worked for Clark Kent.
    The Popsicle stick folded in on himself. “I’m just cold, okay?
The whole reason I left Bismark was to get away from this shit.”
    “We’re all cold, Kit. That was the plan. If we shoot one more video in Southern California, the palm trees are going to have to join Equity. Why don’t you get a cup of coffee?”
    “I can’t hack the caffeine.”
    “Not to drink, hombre . To warm your hands. They’re what I bought. The rest of you just came for the sights.”
    I slid up beside the Dodgers cap. “You need a set of false whiskers. You look just like someone who’s trying not to look just like Gilia.”
    She peered at me over the tops of her glasses. The sun broke through then, and here was someone in show business who hadn’t bought her orthodontist a beach house. One of her front teeth had crossed a little in front of the other. “I should’ve known a smart detective like you would track me down.”
    “I have special equipment. Fifty-two weeks of the Free Press for ten bucks off what I’d pay at the stand. When the factories let out, you’re going to be combing rubberneckers out of your hair.”
    “I’m not on the schedule till tomorrow. I like to drop by, see how my money’s being spent. Speaking of which.” She’d lowered her voice.
    I shook my head. “Picking up, not delivering. Where’s Scarface? Matador,” I added, when her forehead dimpled.
    “¿ Quien sabe? We are not as the saying goes joined at the lip.”
    “Hip; as if you didn’t know. Lupe Velez wore out that act when your grandmother was in jumpers. Are you sure he isn’t somewhere close, disguised as a caterer? Parole boards take a dim view of ex-cons wandering too far from their tethers.”
    “I’m paying you to find a blackmailer, not my business manager.”
    “I’m on it. So, apparently, is your business manager. I’ve been trailing a couple of carloads of your personal security all around town. I hope they found a parking space in the neighborhood. The downtown situation’s pretty tight.”
    She took off the shades. Behind them in the gray light her
pupils had spread and the irises were nearly all black. “Why would he do that, do you think?”
    “That’s what I came here to ask. I’ve got a fair idea, but he might be able to talk me out of it. He’s got a lot more experience hunting than protecting. I want to ask if being back in Detroit confused him about his current job description.”
    “This means what, in inglés ?”
    “This means I didn’t hire on as a spotter for the Colombian branch of Murder, Incorporated. The deal was to bring Jillian Rubio back alive, if that’s what she is. With her back on the payroll, the profits dip. Less money all around.”
    “That’s loco. If she’s dead, there is no profit. I’m a gallows bird.”
    Her voice rose a little on the last part. A woman built like a Teamster—she might have been a Teamster—standing nearby in a shapeless jogging suit and knitted cap looked our way with her eyebrows in her hairline. We moved off into the lee of the generator. The motor thumped and putted behind two sheets of aluminum separated by six inches of rock wool.
    I grinned. “You’re getting the vernacular down. Look, I don’t know what goes on in Matador’s head. I don’t spend a lot of time trying because it’s even harder getting back out. I look at a killer and a killer’s what I see. Life’s much simpler that way, and