John Lutz - Flame
Here you can read online John Lutz - Flame full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:
Romance novel
Science fiction
Adventure
Detective
Science
History
Home and family
Prose
Art
Politics
Computer
Non-fiction
Religion
Business
Children
Humor
Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.
- Book:Flame
- Author:
- Genre:
- Rating:5 / 5
- Favourites:Add to favourites
- Your mark:
- 100
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
Flame: summary, description and annotation
We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Flame" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.
Flame — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work
Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Flame" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.
Font size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
John Lutz
Flame
A little fire is quickly trodden out;
Which, being sufferd, rivers cannot quench.
-William Shakespeare, Henry VIChapter 1
Outside the window the sun bore down with the brilliance and blanching effect of a cosmic tanning lamp. It made the eyes ache. Magellan Avenue was a wide, pale ribbon of pavement. The white stucco combination courthouse and jail across the street looked as if it were constructed of meringue skimmed from the richest of pies. Beyond it, the sun-sparked sea undulated with a shallow glitter that suggested sequins suspended just below the surface like mischievous half-formed thoughts.
Inside the office, Carver sat quietly in his new chair, leaning back with his lame leg propped up on his gleaming new desk. Through the silence in the office he could barely hear the surf breaking on the narrow white beach beyond the buildings on the other side of Magellan. The fetid fish scent of the sea seeped into the cool office with the sound of the waves.
Hed been content working out of his home-Edwinas home actually-a few miles north on the coast highway, but Edwina was in real estate and had mentioned a possible good deal in a building in downtown Del Moray. At first he had resisted the suggestion. Discussion ensued. Positions wavered. Some dangerous situations had developed in the recent past, and Carver thought it might be a good idea to separate his business from Edwina as much as possible, to protect her. So in the end it was Carver whod insisted, and who now sat in the quiet office with nothing to do except organize paper clips and rubber bands, though they were already pretty well whipped into shape.
Hed had one client during the month hed been located here, in this cream stucco building that also housed an insurance broker and a car rental agency. The client had been a wronged husband. A Volkswagen dealer named Wayne Garnett, who, as it turned out, was dealing in murder, as well as drugs smuggled into the country in new cars. Options not mentioned on the sticker.
Carver was getting a headache sitting here staring into the searing clear light beyond the window. He dropped his leg from the desk with a solid thump!, levered himself to his feet with his walnut cane, and limped across the carpet to close the drapes.
He was about to yank on the cord when he saw the dark blue Cadillac pull into the gravel lot. It was a sedan De Ville, one of the last of the block-long models, and was waxed and buffed to a deep shine that gave back the sunlight and danced with the reflected images of palm trees and pale buildings. The driver, obscure behind the dark-tinted side window, looked like a man, but that was all Carver could determine.
Guy must need insurance, he told himself. Or wants to rent a car to carry as a spare in the trunk of that one.
But something kept him from pulling the drapes closed. He stood motionless instead, leaning on his cane, his free hand on the cord, watching while the dinosaur on wheels maneuvered through a wide turn and parked halfway between his office entrance and the entrance to Golden Future Insurance next door.
A man in his sixties climbed out. He was about six feet tall, well built except for a large stomach paunch, and was wearing lime-green pants with a white belt, a pastel green shirt. He had a full head of white hair combed to the side and down low on his forehead, as if he might be disguising a receding hairline.
Before slamming and locking the car door, he slipped a pair of tinted glasses on and adjusted them with a tap to the bridge of his nose. Even from the office window they didnt look like sunglasses, but light pink prescription lenses. White shoes flashed beneath green pants cuffs as he veered only momentarily toward Golden Future, then set a course straight for Carvers office, plodding in the puddle of his dark shadow.
He glimpsed Carver standing at the window. Gave a slight nod to acknowledge his presence but didnt smile or wave. Sunlight shot rays off the round lenses of his glasses as he passed from sight.
Carver heard the door to the small anteroom open and close. The door to his office was open, but the man didnt barge in. Carver waited a few seconds, then said, Cmon in, and limped back toward the desk.
He was taller than six feet, Carver saw when the man stepped into the office. Maybe six-three. He was also closer to seventy than sixty. Once hed been a powerful specimen, and he still had the wide frame, but age had sapped his body of sureness and power. He moved with the kind of tentative slowness indicative of arthritis. His eyes flicked to the cane and Carvers stiff left knee that was bent at a thirty-degree angle for life. Souvenir from a shooting when he was on the Orlando police force.
The man said, You Fred Carver? The remnants of a Southern accent lingered in his voice. Maybe long-ago Tennessee.
Carver nodded, edging up to stand behind the desk. He noticed that the white shoes were soft patent leather and had ornate silver-tipped tassels.
Im Bert Renway. A thick arm dusted with white hair was extended. Carver shook hands with the man, surprised by the coolness of flesh and strength of grip. Phone directory says youre a private investigator.
Carver motioned for Renway to sit in the chair near the desk. Sat down himself. Said, smiling, The yellow pages wouldnt lie.
Hard to get a recommendation for somebody in your line of work, Renway said. Dont know anyone who ever hired a private detective. Coulda gone to the police and asked them to recommend somebody, but I didnt wanna do that.
Usually the people who hire me have already been to the police, Carver said, and came away dissatisfied. How can I help you, Mr. Renway?
By figurin out what the hells goin on. I promised I wouldnt get too nosy about it, but, dammit, I just gotta know! He leaned forward and parted his white hair with his fingertips. Surprised Carver by tugging at the hair and removing most of it to reveal a large bald spot. Held the toupee out as if it were a small animal hed just slain. Said, This aint my real hair.
Carver said, Hope not.
Renway tapped one of the lenses of his glasses with a broad fingernail. One thing never went bad on mes my eyes. I dont wear specs; these are ordinary tinted glass, though they dont look it. Wouldnt wear these floppy white shoes, either, cept they made me. Theyre not even my shoes. Givin me blisters. Walkin around in the damn things is part of the deal, though.
What deal?
To be somebody else.
Who?
Got no idea, other than a name dont mean a thing to me.
Carver leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. The wood felt cool on his bare arms. A hint of vulnerability.
He said, Mr. Renway, we better start you-know-where.
Chapter 2
Renway absently drew a pack of Winstons from his shirt pocket, then looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time. He peeled off the tinted glasses and raised his gray eyebrows inquisitively at Carver. Okay if I smoke?
Sure. Carver was guilty of an occasional cigar, so who was he to object? He stretched out an arm and handed Renway the seashell ashtray from the corner of the desk. Its occupant was long gone and wouldnt complain.
Renway placed the ashtray in his lap, then got out one of those cheap disposable lighters that encased a fishing fly as if it were an insect in a kill bottle. Touched flame to cigarette and inhaled deeply. He said, I guess the beginnings back when I retired from the railroad up north and moved down here to Florida with my wife, Ella, to live on my pension. It was gonna be the beginnin of the good years. He picked a shred of tobacco from his lower lip and flicked it away. Things didnt work out. Pension money didnt go as far as we thought, then six months ago cancer took Ella. After she died, I kept livin in the mobile home wed bought east of town, Beach Cove Court. You know the place?
Font size:
Interval:
Bookmark:
Similar books «Flame»
Look at similar books to Flame. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.
Discussion, reviews of the book Flame and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.