Read Rhode Island Red for Free Online

Who’s there?”
    I was trying to pull some kind of semi-coherent lie together, but my mind wasn’t turning over fast enough.
    â€œWho’s there?” she asked again. “Who is it?”
    â€œMy name is Ann. I—I’m a friend of Sig’s.”
    â€œWhere is he? Where’s he been?”
    There were freckles across the bridge of her nose. She became prettier the longer you looked at her. In fact she looked a little like Sig.
    â€œListen, Inge, I need to talk to you.”
    The dog at her feet seemed to look up expectantly at me. He was massive and sad-looking, and when he got to his feet it was as if they hurt him.
    â€œI need to talk to you alone. Can we go someplace private?” I asked.
    She snorted, as if I’d said something funny. Maybe the whole world is private if you’re blind.
    â€œI live close,” she said. Inge packed up quickly and then leaned down to give a gentle tug on the dog’s kerchief. “Let’s go home, Bruno. Good boy.”
    With every step, Bruno threatened to get himself tangled up in her legs—almost tripping her—but she walked on nimbly.
    I followed her wordlessly through the streets, too embarrassed to offer my arm at the crosswalk. The sax was plainly not this girl’s calling. I wondered if she could sing, wondered if she had some kind of crazed Ray Charles fantasy working—hey, I’m soulful, I’m hip, I’m blind. Or maybe it was Sig who had that particular fantasy. Perhaps that had been part of his attraction to her. I flashed pruriently on the two of them making love, her willowy body moving under him, breath clogging, eyes staring at nothing. Well, maybe not at nothing; how did I know what she saw?
    She lived in a brownstone between Sixth and Broadway. On the ground floor was a wholesale florist. We walked up a flight and then straight back to a plain, big, square of a room at the end of a hallway. Little furniture except a bed and chair and a plush little mattress for Bruno.
    Inge kicked out of her high boots and lit a Newport 100.
    â€œYou’re going to tell me bad news,” she announced. “You’re here to tell me something has happened to Sig.”
    The dog watched me carefully, seeming to wait for my reply before he settled his weight down onto the floorboards.
    I gave up on the elaborate story I’d been working on. And merely said, “He’s dead, Inge.”
    She moaned once and then fell silent. She smoked furiously for a minute.
    â€œI knew it,” she said by and by. “I knew it. The minute I heard your voice on the street. What happened?”
    â€œHe was murdered. It was—I mean, it looks as if it was a robbery gone wrong.”
    I waited for her tears—or something. But no—she went on puffing, biting into her bottom lip every now and then.
    In a minute, she held the pack out to me. I took one gratefully, continuing to watch her face.
    â€œWhat will you do?” I said after a few minutes.
    â€œNothing. I don’t know. I didn’t know him that long.”
    â€œDid you love him?”
    She laughed abruptly. Then I saw the tears in the corners of her eyes.
    â€œInge, I feel terrible about what happened. Sig was in my … neighborhood when it happened. I just know he’d want me to come and tell you about it. And to help—help you out in any way I could.”
    She sat down then. “What did you say your name was?” she said wearily. “Angela?”
    â€œAnn.”
    â€œUm. So Sig told you about me?”
    â€œThat’s right. The last time we met, he did.”
    â€œI don’t remember Sig talking about you. You a musician too?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI blow tenor. Not too good, though. Sig was helping me.”
    â€œCan I make you a cup of coffee?”
    â€œWhy don’t you just rest. I’ll get it,” I said. “Just tell me where things