Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ said as much to Marta. At least I think I did. But she responded with a quick overview of how much income this could provide me. I turned her down over and over again, I swear. Yes, dollar signs danced in front of my eyes, but the thought of clapping eyes on Tim Murphy again was something my system couldn’t take. I told myself I would rather live in destitution for a thousand lifetimes than go another round with Murphy.

      “…we’ll see you at three, then,” Marta said happily and hung up.

      I was left staring into space, my jaw hanging open. Slowly, I brought my lips together again and clicked off my cell phone. There was no memory in my mind of an agreement to meet with Tess, but somehow I’d managed to say yes.

      Chapter Two

      I had hours before my date with Marta but that didn’t mean I didn’t have things to do. I yanked on a pair of black jeans that had shrunk, making me look as if I were wearing capri pants. I coupled this with a once black, now gray, sleeveless T-shirt and quickly tied on my gray and black Nikes without socks. I gave another cursory glance in the mirror. My light brown hair lay in a shoulder-length tangle. I’m beyond stylish, no doubt. The Nikes were my good shoes, not my running shoes. I also own a pair of flip-flops and that about says it all for my entire shoe selection. There are a few dresses in my closet, left over from college when I used to care what I wore. I save them for weddings and funerals. One of these days I’m going to have to learn how to shop, but it hasn’t happened yet.

      I dragged a brush through my hair, hoping for a miracle. No use. The gods of coif gifted me with straight, forgettable hair that firmly defies any kind of style. I used to complain about it until I listened to the woes of those cursed with serious curls/frizz whose taming time at least tripled my alloted five minutes for hair. Now, I keep my mouth shut. As I scraped my hair into a ponytail I remembered things could be worse.

      Locking the door behind me I thought about lipstick and settled for Chapstick. I skimmed a wax coating on my mouth, inhaled deeply and smacked my lips. Tropical fruit. Who needs breakfast?

      My car is a dark blue Volvo wagon which my mother purchased years earlier and donated to me. Actually, I think she just forgot she owned it, which is fine by me. I drove it out of California a little over four years ago and never looked back. Well, okay, I’ve looked back, but though I grew up in the land of southern California sunshine, I don’t mind the Oregon rain…too much.

      With a supreme effort of will I pushed thoughts of Murphy and Cotton and Bobby Reynolds aside. At least I managed to push them to a distant corner of my mind for the time being. As I climbed into the car I called Dwayne on my cell phone to see if any of the property owners he deals with needed someone (me) to post 72-hour eviction notices. These same property owners then pay me a fee for chasing all over the greater Portland area and potentially facing enraged evictees like the howler.

      “Hullo,” Dwayne drawled, sounding as if I’d interrupted him.

      “Hi, it’s me.”

      I could hear papers being shuffled. Dwayne’s in love with hard copy. He relies on the hunt-and-peck method, and therefore he runs off pages and reams and cargo loads of paper. It’s a form of compensation, or maybe Dwayne’s a belt-and-suspender kind of guy—an inverse reaction to his line of work. “What’s up?” he asked without any real interest.

      I wanted to blab about Marta’s call and my pending meeting with Tess Reynolds but I also wanted to gauge Dwayne’s reaction to the news when we saw each other in person. I asked instead, “Have you got any work?”

      “Hayden needs some 72’s posted,” Dwayne said.

      “Great. I’ll stop by his office.”

      “Bring me a Standish burger, would’ja?”

      “No,” I responded without a second thought. Standish’s was known for its burgers the size of a large dinner plate. The place was a Portland institution, the original tavern located out Sunset Highway, past Hillsboro, which in my mind, is halfway to the beach. Its satellite offshoot is on Macadam Avenue which runs north from Lake Chinook proper to Portland, right across from Hayden’s office.

      “Be a good girl. I’ll give you an extra buck or two for delivery.”

      “Oh, yeah, sure. Sweet-talk me. Where do these notices need to be posted? I’ll bring you a burger if it’s on the way.”

      “I don’t know where the hell they’re supposed to go. You’re not gonna make me wait.” He sounded disbelieving.

      “Yes, I am,” I stated succinctly and clicked off.

      The Volvo started right up but it was warm inside, the worn black leather seats infused with heat. I flipped on the air-conditioning and left my house on West Bay, heading into Lake Chinook proper so that I could drive the road which runs alongside the Willamette River straight up to Greg Hayden’s office and Standish’s.

      Greg needed to alert several defaulting renters that they had 72 hours in which to vacate their premises. Usually by the time Greg decides to pay me to post the notices, these deadbeats are way past due. For a few extra dollars I will also traipse to the county courthouse to file the paperwork. When I’m low on cash I start looking for work as a process server. My friends see this as a personal flaw. Maybe it is, but the real jobs I’ve tried haven’t worked out all that well. Even my bartending gig had its drawbacks. I need flexibility and mobility or I’m doomed.

      Greg’s office is an older house off Macadam that has resisted the commercial development surrounding it on all sides. It looks cute on the outside, smells like dog on the inside and is a deathtrap of sloping floors and haphazard furniture. When I walked in Greg was rummaging through his desk, talking on the phone and tossing around loose papers. He makes Dwayne look like a man of the 22nd century as Greg still doesn’t use a computer at all. When I entered he motioned to an untidy stack of stapled papers. I scooped up the forms, sent him a high sign and headed back to the Volvo, breathing deeply as soon as I stepped onto the porch. There is no dog any longer. The cotenant with the back office and his Basset hound are gone, thank God. Dogs are fine, but they smell. And shed. And dig. And bark. Not to mention the fact that they do not have designated indoor toilet facilities. My idea of pets is the geese and ducks that paddle around on the lake. However, if they flap onto my property in a group, as they’re wont to do, I’ll shoo them off faster than you can say “group duck poop.”

      Glancing at the addresses, I realized one of the soon-to-be evictees wasn’t that far outside my neighborhood. I had just enough time to grab Dwayne’s burger, speed over to his place, tack up the notice, then buzz downtown to meet Marta and Tess. Maybe I even had time for a quick stop at the grocery store. I could head home later and make myself a sandwich, thereby saving myself a few bucks on lunch/dinner. As soon as this thought crossed my mind, I nixed it. Better to buy a Standish burger for myself and charge that to Dwayne, too.

      Standish’s was packed. I edged to the bar and placed a take-out order. As much as I love those huge burgers, I settled for a more moderate size. The bag smelled of juicy beef, onions and grease. I paid with some crumpled dollars and coins and was on my way within fifteen minutes.

      I ate in the car. I covered my lap with extra napkins and chowed into the burger, one handed. In New York it’s against the law to hold a cell phone while driving. Other states may soon follow. But as yet you can still eat a burger. I know a woman who applies eyeliner on her way to work each morning while driving. I call it multi-tasking.

      By the time I pulled up to Dwayne’s place and parked behind his car I was finished СКАЧАТЬ