Chasing China White, Allan Leverone [feel good books to read txt] 📗

Like this last job: office work, 9-5. Basically take paper from that place and move it there. Which was fine now-and-then but every day? And from now until retirement? No thanks.

“I’m taking personal leave,” I said.

“Their loss, I’m sure,” said Janssen with a knowing grin.

“Undoubtedly,” I said, firing a knowing grin back. “But let’s stop agreeing, we might get wrinkles from all the smiling.”

“Couldn’t agree more, good sir, couldn’t agree more.”

Leave it to Janssen to have to win on a word count, too. He repeated everything. Probably thought it was folksy and inspired trust. Personally, it made me want to throw up but every mark had a different threshold. Because, yes, as it turned out, I was to be the mark that morning, painted with a big bullseye and ripe for the targeting despite my defensive strategy.

“Say, didn’t you use to sell encyclopedias while putting yourself through cavity college?” It irked Janssen like nothing else did if you didn’t wrap his former profession up in fancy cloths and place it on a golden altar and then bow down in front of it with the appropriate deference. So I made sure to do exactly that whenever possible.

“Well, I learned a sight more than how to fill cavities, let me tell you, Mr. Fitch, but, yes, I did spend several years flogging my volumes of wordy wares, educating the masses to all the wonders the world has to share.”

Jeez, a simple “yeah” was never enough for this guy. But I felt the position of the conversational sun changing. If I could get a tall building between it and me, get Janssen onto someone or something else, I might have a chance of losing my annoying shadow. A Janssen distracted was a Janssen disappeared.

“Must’ve been tough,” I said.

Janssen nodded. “There was many a day where my feet were worse for wear. The dogs were barking, as they say.”

“Nah, for your mind.”

He cocked his head and frowned. “Excuse me?”

“There you were tryin’ to fund your way though rotten molar school amongst all them preppy rich kids and you had to bring a knife to a gun battle to survive.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Books, Janssen. Who reads anymore? It’s all about the almighty glow of the television screen. You show up at their house, what were most of them doin’? Watching TV, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Sure, maybe an average Joe buys a set of A-Zs to look important but does he actually read them, when the screen can tell him everything he needs to know? TV is the new religion, mark my words.”

As we reached the end of the alley, I hope it’d mean we reached the end of the conversation. I got lucky. All of a sudden, Janssen had itchy feet, had to get going. He remembered he had irons in the fire and off he went, whistling a merry tune. Which was reason for me to whistle, too, and I gave my pathetic song a whirl before stopping mid-pfft. Wait a—

No.

No.

It couldn’t be.

I patted all my pockets.

Oh, it be.

Janssen, the rotten scoundrel, had lifted my 40 nickels.

Click here to learn more about 40 Nickels by R. Daniel Lester.

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Here is a preview from Crossing the Chicken, the fifth Jake Diamond mystery by J.L. Abramo.

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Vinnie

My worst habit is bad luck.

—Vinnie “Strings” Stradivarius

SATURDAY

“Vinnie. Vinnie. Vinnie.”

Vinnie Strings would have rather been sitting on a bed of hot coals than sitting face-to-face with William Conway across Big Bill’s oak desk in the back office of the Blarney Stone Saloon.

“I know,” Vinnie said.

“You knowing isn’t doing you much good, and it does me no good at all. And don’t insult me by telling me you are working on it. You have witnessed how I make examples of those who fail to pay what they owe. You know I will have no choice but to make an example of you. I didn’t twist your arm to put down bets with me, but both your arms will be twisted until they snap if you can’t cover your loses. I have a reputation to uphold. You may want to ask your guardian angel to bail you out again. I heard he squared your debt to Sandoval, and I heard Manny’s two gorillas are still on crutches.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that.”

“Whatever you say. In any case, do Jake Diamond a favor and explain to him that I am not Manny Sandoval and I don’t employ morons.”

“Can you give me more time?”

“Of course, Vinnie, that’s why you’re sitting here and not in traction at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. One week. Go.”

Vinnie Strings sat alone in a booth at The Homestead on 19th Street and Folsom, working on his third gin and tonic.

He was staring at the phonebooth just inside the front door.

Vinnie had come close, a few times, to leaving the table to phone Jake Diamond.

He knew Jake would help him, but not without a lecture. Vinnie decided the lecture from Big Bill had been enough for one day.

He turned his attention back to his drink, found the glass empty, and called to Rachel for another.

Minutes later, Vinnie was about to ask Rachel why she had delivered two drinks when Bobby Lockhart sat at the booth.

“On me,” Lockhart said.

“Thanks.”

Bobby and Vinnie sat in at the same poker game twice a month. They were not exactly bosom buddies, but they got along.

“I hear you’re into Big Bill Conway for three large.”

“Did you read about it in the Chronicle?”

“You know how word gets around among gamblers, we all love hearing about someone less lucky.”

“I’m all right.”

“You don’t look all right.”

“No offense, Bobby, but I would rather talk about the weather.”

“I can help you.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because you would be helping me.”

“I’ll listen,” Vinnie said.

“There’s a cat owes me fifteen grand for work I did for him, and he’s late. He said he would have