Read Solitary Dancer for Free Online Page A

too, he and Donovan would handle this on their own.
    McGuire lifted his head to smile back at Fox. “I, uh . . .” he began in that low voice of his, the sound textured like a wet gravel road. “Nothing, Timmy,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”
    He wore a faded cotton sweater, once white but now the colour of dishwater, the frayed collar and cuffs of a blue oxford-cloth shirt visible beneath it. His denim jeans were oversized, the bottoms rolled above a tattered pair of Reeboks worn with no socks. A three-day growth of beard grew among the folds of a face as shrunken and bony as the rest of his body.
    McGuire looked perhaps twenty pounds lighter and twenty years older than the last time Fox had seen him, less than a year and a half earlier.
    â€œDonovan tell you about the woman on Newbury Street?” Fox asked.
    McGuire nodded.
    â€œWe’ve got your voice on her answering machine tape, Joe,” Timmy said. “Threatening the murder victim.”
    â€œSo I hear.”
    â€œWhat got you so pissed at her?”
    â€œNot sure.”
    â€œYou on a drunk?”
    McGuire thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Not yesterday.”
    â€œWhere were you last night?”
    â€œBeats the heck out of me.”
    â€œWhere’d you wake up this morning?”
    â€œMy place.”
    â€œThe room over the Flamingo.”
    â€œHome sweet home.”
    â€œI was there.” Fox smiled. “You should lock your door.”
    â€œNothing to steal. Besides,” McGuire grinned, “it’s never locked. Gets used when I’m not in.”
    â€œGirls from the club taking johns up there?”
    McGuire ran a hand through his hair, longish, growing gray, the curls tighter than ever. “Pays the rent. Keeps the kids off the streets.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Donovan muttered from the corner. McGuire looked at him without expression.
    â€œYou don’t remember calling this Lorenzo woman?” Fox said.
    McGuire turned back to Fox, shook his head.
    â€œCan you remember why you were so angry with her?”
    Another shake.
    â€œHow’d you know her?” Donovan called from the corner. “You bang her a few times maybe? Or were you just pimping for her?”
    Tim Fox glared across at Donovan.
    McGuire smiled and moved his lips.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Tim Fox asked, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes.
    â€œUsed to be related,” McGuire said, loud enough this time for Fox to hear. He rubbed the back of his neck. “My ex-wife’s sister.”
    Fox straightened up. Donovan pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and began scribbling in it. “When was the last time you saw her?” Fox asked.
    McGuire shrugged. “Not for years. Until . . .” He frowned, staring down at his feet. “Until a week, maybe two weeks ago. I was, uh . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose, stared up at the ceiling for a moment and nodded as though agreeing with himself. “I was over in the Esplanade one day. Just waiting, looking . . . looking for somebody. There were these women in fur coats and a photographer and a bunch of other people near the band shell and one of them kept looking at me, and then she came over and started talking to me. And I recognized her, I saw it was Heather. The photographer, he was one of her clients or whatever she called them, fashion photographers.”
    He sat back in the chair, raised his chin, spoke to the ceiling. “She, uh, she laughed at the way I looked, what I was doing. Said she knew who I was going to meet, what I wanted to see him for. Heard about me doing doing what I was doing. Thought it was funny . . .”
    â€œWho were you going to meet?” Fox asked.
    McGuire pondered the answer. “A friend. Just a friend.”
    â€œHe got a name?” Donovan asked.
    â€œDjango,” McGuire said. “Just Django. And, uh, she