Read Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash for Free Online Page B

out of the elevator. I was dying to know what could possibly have made André so jittery. I mean, when I first met André, he scared me with his tough looks, growly “Scat, kid,” and menacing cigar. Now I get that he acts like that because of the people he has to deal with every day. Some may be down on their luck, but most of the people who stay at the Heavenly seem to spend their days walking a shaky line between freedom and jail.
    Anyway, there I am, hanging back, waiting for some ghoulish monster, or maybe the
police,
to come clomping down the hall, when what do I see?
    Two roly-poly middle-aged ladies.
    “There it is, right there,” one of them says. She’s wearing a red-and-white checkered blouse that’s really just a big rectangle with a hole for the head. And with her broad shoulders and the way the blouse is kinda flowing out behind her, this lady looks like a picnic table that’s decided to get up and go for a stroll.
    The other one’s got on dark red pants and a bright yellow top and has a speckled green scarf swooped around her neck. “I cannot believe he spent his final days here,” she says, keeping her voice low. “What was he
doing
here?”
    As I watch them pass by the stairwell, it hits me that if the one lady’s a picnic table, the other’s the picnic condiments. And instead of the dish running away with the spoon, the ketchup, mustard, and relish are running away with the table!
    Something about that totally cracks me up. Dumb, I know, but the more I watch them hurry down the hall, the goofier I get about it.
    Then all of a sudden there’s a growl in my ear. “What are you snickerin’ about?”
    I jump, and there’s André, eyebrow arched, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Nothing! Sorry!” I tell him, then try to act cool. “What’s going on, anyway?”
    “I let the wrong person in last night.” He spies around the corner and adds, “Mr. Ritter had no brothers. Not livin’, anyways.”
    “So wait. The guy you let into his room last night told you he was his brother but wasn’t?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I wrap an eye around the corner, too, and whisper, “So those are his…”
    “Daughters,” he growls, and shows me a Sew Superior business card with the name Sandra Ritter-Boswell on it.
Specializing in Alterations, Curtains, and Quilts.
“I feel like a moron. I have no idea who that guy was last night or what he made off with.”
    “But it couldn’t have been much, right? You said it all looked like garbage.”
    “Yeah, but who knows? And why’d he do that if it wasn’t something important?”
    I think about this a minute. “What did he look like?”
    “Old. Old and bereaved.” He snorts. “I even refunded Buck’s unused days. Man, I got suckered.”
    I tisk and say, “Ouch,” ’cause at the Heavenly it’s cash up front
only,
so for André, refunding money to a guy who’d duped him was like adding injury to insult.
    As we watch the Picnic Sisters fumble open the door to room 311, André mutters, “What if he did have something valuable? What if they’re here to get it? What if they find out I let some joker in last night without checkin’ ID or anything? I don’t need the heat. I don’t need another investigation!” He curses, then growls, “And I hate bein’ duped.” He eases back and says, “I’ve got to get back to the desk.” He eyes me as he grabs the box of trash bags. “You know nothing, right?”
    I nod. “Not a thing.”
    He heads back down the stairs, and his mutant reflections make the mad dash to infinity as he whispers, “Keep an eye on them. I’m willing to pay for useful information!”
    Now, I find it hard to keep an eye on anyone I can’t see. And since the Picnic Sisters have disappeared into room 311, I mosey over and stick my nose inside. “Excuse me,” I say, trying hard to block the thought that I had, in fact, scared their father to death. “The manager sent me up to see if I could help you in any way.”
    They blink at me,