Read A Flower in the Desert for Free Online

boredom at all. Much more exposure to that smile and I’d be forced to tell her, reluctantly, that my heart was promised to another. In a soft, pleasant voice, she informed me that Mr. Norman was expecting me and that I should go right in. I noticed, as I passed by her, that her eyes were green. I opened the office door.
    Inside, white linen on the walls, white shag on the floor. The desk, lacquered in white, wasn’t quite as big as a cabin cruiser. Neither was Ed Norman, who stood up behind it and then walked around it, smiling at me and holding out his hand. Beyond the desk, framed in the big picture window, stood the Capitol Records Building, one of L.A.’s monuments to American good taste.
    Six feet four inches tall, Ed Norman was a black man with an uncanny resemblance to the young Harry Belafonte. The current Harry Belafonte also possesses an uncanny resemblance to the young Harry Belafonte, but Ed’s resemblance was uncannier—maybe because Ed was about two feet wider at the shoulders. Today those shoulders were neatly encased in a conservative gray suit of tropical-weight wool whose tailoring was so sleek it could have been genetically engineered.
    He squeezed my hand. “How’s it going, Joshua?”
    â€œFine,” I said. “I can see that things are a little rough for you right now.” I looked around the office. “If I can help out, a shoulder to cry on, a ten-spot till next Thursday, you let me know.”
    He smiled. “It’s all front. Tinsel and glitter, like everything else in town. So how’s Rita?”
    â€œShe’s fine. Fine. She’s out of the chair, you knew that?”
    He grinned. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Jesus, that’s great. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when I heard.”
    I nodded. “Me too.”
    â€œWould you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
    â€œTea, sure. Thanks.”
    He leaned back against the desk, tapped a button on his phone, and said, “Bonnie, could you bring us a pot of tea, please?” He tapped the button again, lifted a manila folder off the desktop, turned back to me. “Take a seat.” He nodded to the long white sofa.
    We sat down on it and he stretched back, propped his Florsheims atop the coffee table, and reached into his shirt pocket and plucked out a pack of Marlboros. He turned to me. “You’re still not smoking?”
    â€œSeven years now.”
    â€œYou’re not going to get all prissy on me if I light up?”
    I shrugged. “Your office. Your lungs.”
    He smiled and stuck a cigarette between his lips, tossed the pack to the coffee table. “At least you’re not a Born-Again Breather. Quite a few of those here in town.” He slipped his hand into his suit coat pocket, slipped it out holding a gold Dunhill lighter, flicked the lighter, lit his cigarette, returned the lighter to his pocket. He took a long deep drag that probably left nicotine stains along the soles of his socks. I felt the ex-smoker’s mixed feelings of contempt and envy.
    â€œOkay,” he said, exhaling. He opened the folder against his lap. “This is what I’ve been able to put together since this morning, when you called. It’s not a lot, but it should get you started.” From the folder he lifted a sheath of computer-form paper, the sheets still connected to one another, the sprocket strips still attached. He looked at me. “Tell me something. I didn’t ask this morning because I don’t function too well before that first cup of coffee. But why is it that Rita didn’t do the search herself?” He sucked on his cigarette.
    â€œThe search?”
    â€œThe database search.” Exhaling a cumulus of smoke, he lifted the computer paper. “For all this.”
    â€œI never asked her. I thought that you being out here, you’d be able to find the stuff more easily.”
    He