Read The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb for Free Online

unfamiliar with at the man I love! Big Al is throwing his jacket and ridiculous hat into the trunk of the car. He slams the trunk shut. He’s angry. Very angry. He’s still shouting at Miguel and gesticulating as he jumps into the driver’s seat, starts up the engine, and accelerates. Dust and small stones shoot from the tires. Miguel flaps his hands in front of his face, waving the dust away. I can imagine how the grit will stick to the sweat trickling along the folds of his flabby face.
    With Bud gone, I breathe. My eyes follow the police car along the road, until it’s out of sight. Its siren is piercing, without any musical tone; it lashes into the humidity of the afternoon and bounces off the moist air, a dead and mournful sound. By the time I look back down to the street, more people are on the scene. The man with the Tilley hat is helping the woman in the capris to her feet. He’s being helped by another woman. This is the first time I’ve seen her: she’s short and round, wearing a floor-length traditional dress. She’s about sixty, dark skinned, with black-but-graying hair pulled into a bun on top of her head. She’s offering the woman in the capris a glass of water, and I suspect she’s something to do with Bob’s Bodega, because, together with a dark-skinned man, also in his sixties, she is helping the woman into the bodega in a solicitous manner.
    The skinny, pale-skinned man in the Tilley hat is now being joined by two other women, who are rushing from the spa. One is as tall as he is, so she must be about six feet, and I’m guessing she weighs about three hundred pounds, though it’s difficult to tell because she’s wearing a full-length bright orange, voluminous dress, topped with a matching broad-brimmed orange sunhat. I can’t judge her age at all. Beside her is a shorter, trimmer woman, maybe in her fifties or sixties. She’s blond and smartly dressed—preppy. She seems to be with the tall, thin Tilley man—their body language screams “couple” when she greets him. The large orange-clad woman clearly knows them both. Everyone seems to know everyone else.
    Just as the women join the thin man, they are met by the chef I’d seen in the lane between the buildings. He comes from the end of the building that houses the bodega. It is clear that he knows Miguel, who is waving everyone away from the florist’s store, but is, apparently, keen to share information. There is a great deal of breast clutching and head shaking. The women hold their hands to their mouths in horror. The chef shakes a fist at the heavens. Another woman rushes around the bodega end of the building: she’s very short, very thin, dressed as though for tennis, and her complexion suggests she’s of African descent. She might be in her fifties or sixties. She makes for the short, blond woman. They embrace. They share shock and horror. The large woman in the orange robe waves her arms about, the chef in the red shirt beckons to everyone, and gradually, with Miguel encouraging them, they all go inside the bodega. Just as I decide that I need to think about what it is that Bud called out, I see a tall, overweight man of African descent, wearing a vivid Hawaiian shirt, come barreling around the spa end of the building. He’s smiling broadly and opens his arms toward Miguel in a welcoming manner. Miguel speaks to him rapidly, and the big man rushes into the bodega, a look of concern clouding his face.
    That’s when I call Jack. While we are on the phone I hear a distant siren—probably the vehicle sent to collect the corpse. And that’s it. That’s all I can recall that might help Bud.
    I opened my eyes, adjusted my sunglasses, and lit another cigarette. I realized I’d managed to catch quite a bit of sun on my nose: it was a little tender. So, other than getting sunburned, what had I achieved? I gave my recollections some analytical