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

you know what? Life is simple. People don’t change. Maybe they get a little more refined, hire someone else to do their drivebys so they don’t get nitrate all over their French cuffs. A mug’s a mug in Thom McAns or Italian loafers. Especially in Italian loafers.”
    “And what do you see when you look at me? A killer also?”
    “Now that you mention it, I’m having a little trouble locating that political prisoner you were helping escape while Angela Suerto was getting herself poisoned. May I call you Mariposa, when we’re alone? I actually prefer it to Gilia. It’s less like the name of a venomous iguana.”
    If I expected her to curse or spit, shout caramba and dance a flamenco on my chest, I was disappointed. Not a muscle moved
in her face. “You’ve been tracking me as well. When do you find time to look for Jillian Rubio?”
    “It makes sense to look back before you pull out into traffic. In my business we don’t ask for references, but it can save time later if we test a client’s story for leaks. It would speed things up if the prisoner had a name.”
    “We did not use names in the resistance. The less each of us knew, the less we had to tell under persuasion. I would say ‘torture, ’ but the word doesn’t do justice to the cleverness of the soldiers of the government. Pencil sharpeners and old-fashioned crank telephones have many uses beyond what their inventors intended.” She put her glasses back on, erasing the last bit of expression from her face. “We went where we were told and did there as we were asked. I never saw the man before that night, and I haven’t had so much as a Christmas card from him since. I don’t know what offense he was in prison for, or whether he was guilty or innocent. The distinction isn’t all that great when you consider how few activities there are that do not violate some law there.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Okay?” She didn’t put an h in front of it, a surprise. Her English had a way of becoming slow and thoughtful when she spoke of home, with fewer contractions and an occasional misplaced accent.
    “Okay as in that’s as far as I can go for now. I’ll be back when I can think of some more questions. I may even have a couple of answers. Meanwhile you can tell Matador to blow his whistle.”
    “His whistle?”
    “Whatever he uses. His dogs are distracting me and I’m too busy to find out why.”
    “So now I’m your messenger.”
    “I’d tell him myself, but he knows more places to hide around here than I do.”
    “And if he says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, which is probable?”
    “He might want to find out. I have some favors outstanding in Lansing, never mind what or who. He’s got the longest leash of any Jackson parolee I ever met. Somewhere he has to have bent the terms of his release. Up at the capital they hate like hell to shorten a life sentence. They don’t need much of an excuse to reinstate it.”
    Her glasses reflected the city skyline, stepped black against gray. “You’re stupid, hombre . Not brave. Stupid.”
    “I get that a lot,” I said. “But this is the first time I’ve been stupid in two languages.”
    “I’ve got a video to set up.” She walked away from me, raising her voice and clapping her hands for attention.
    The cops were still smoking at the barricade when I climbed around them. I looked at the one with the humorous eyes. “You were right. She wasn’t there.”
    He thought about that hard. His lower lip worked at the end of his cigarette. “We never get the really good celebrities. If we did, they’d pull us off and put two other cops in our place.”
    I left them and cranked my car out of a patch of gravel and broken glass. Back by the river, the electric guitar screeched again, then played a snatch of honest music: “Stairway to Heaven.” Kit’s fingers had thawed out, along with his sense of humor.

TEN
    I t’s eight hundred square feet on the border of Hamtramck and the