Read Angel With a Bullet for Free Online

crossed him under his mattress. He said it was fun to screw other broads right there on top of them.” He begins to chuckle. “Then he would sleep on his back so they had to look at his hairy ass all night.”
    Bill cracks up and wanders away, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
    With a smile, I turn to Frank. “So what do you think of Capone’s theory?”
    â€œYou never know,” Frank says seriously. “Maybe fat, old ghosts know more than fat, old cops.” He stares off into space for a moment. “After all, he’s in a better position to ask the guy.”
    I pick up the Polaroid.
    â€œI’ve seen this artist’s work mentioned on the international wires. He’s European, I think, and bigger than Diego. Most of his stuff sells in the fifty- to hundred-thousand range.”
    â€œ Dollars ?”
    â€œEuros.” I grin. “Art is big business.”
    Frank snorts. “Who sticks fifty-plus grand under a mattress?”
    â€œCould be a motive for murder,” I suggest.
    Frank’s mouth twitches. “An art thief breaks into Chino’s place, goes to all the trouble of staging a suicide, and then forgets to take the painting?”
    â€œWell, when you put it like that.”
    â€œBest leave detecting to the professionals, Dix.”
    â€œYeah, yeah.”
    I finish the tequila in one shot—the glass nearly colliding with my pouting lower lip—and chase it with a swallow from the bottle of ale.
    â€œBy the way.” I attempt to stifle a yawn. “What was that pink thing stuck in the shotgun’s trigger guard?”
    â€œA toe. Kickback must have sliced it off.”
    â€œIs the body missing one?”
    Frank’s twitch blossoms into a grin.
    â€œYeah, Dix. It is.”

Four
    The artist crawls across burgundy carpet to dip ghost-white fingers into a pool of shimmering blood. His fingers are searching. When his hand emerges, it clutches a flap of skin with no recognizable shape. Using both hands, the artist stretches the skin over the shotgun hole where his face had been.
    Flesh mask in place, he tries to grin. A white rip opens where the mouth should be to reveal pink tongue and sharp, pearly whites. Clenched between his teeth is a silky sable brush.
    Wake up, Dix.
    The artist dips the brush into the empty socket of his left eye, coating the bristles with crimson sap.
    Gross. Wake up!
    He paints ruby lips around the torn slit of his mouth as a deep bass drum begins to beat. Its pulse grows stronger, pulling …
    I open my eyes with a groan.
    On the nightstand, the neon display shining through the worn seat of my tartan pajama bottoms—where I must have tossed them in frustration after being unable to untie the knotted drawstring—shows it is only 7 a.m.
    I have been asleep barely five hours.
    â€œGet the door, will you,” I croak to Bubbles who is merrily swimming around in her bowl despite an advanced age of ninety-three days.
    She ignores me.
    The incessant pounding continues.
    â€œIf I ask nicely?“
    Bubbles turns her back and flicks her tail before I can finish my appeal.
    â€œHold on,” I call as I throw off covers and head into the bathroom.
    There, I splash cold water on my face, gargle with mint Listerine, and take care of necessary business. I am pleased to note that I had the presence of mind to sleep in my favorite green football jersey. A gift from a college boyfriend whose name I am no longer sure about, the over-washed shirt falls to my knees, has more holes in it than episodic television, and sports a frayed collar stretched so wide it barely holds on to my shoulders. It’s like being wrapped in a hug.
    I open the door to be greeted by …
    â€œUgh,” say the two women in unison.
    â€œ ‘Ugh’? You wake me at seven for ‘ugh’?”
    â€œNo,” Kristy blurts. “It’s just that you … you look kind of—”
    â€œUgh?”