America Rising

America Rising by Tom Paine Page B

Book: America Rising by Tom Paine Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Paine
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fucking mouth shut, pardon my French, about staying away from ‘bitches.’ I don’t remember what else. Tell you the truth, I was scared too. He may have been little but he looked like he’d bite your nose off, just to see if it tastes good. Then he got back in the car and drove away and the Shitheel went inside.”
     
    “When was this?”
     
    “About two weeks ago.”
     
    “Would you recognize him if you— Of course you would.”
     
    “Damn straight.”
     
    “What about Gaby?”
     
    Marilyn took another big gulp of vodka and checked her watch.
     
    “When the Shitheel’s not here she’s probably in the exercise room, running on one of those treadmill thingees. What is it with you young people and exercise, anyway? Melvin and I never exercised a day in our lives and we’re still going stro—well, Melvin isn’t. But he was as strong as an ox. Did I tell you—”
     
    I waved my arms in surrender. “Marilyn, Marilyn.”
     
    No wonder poor Melvin was no longer with us. Just trying to get a word in edgewise had probably worn him out.
     
    “Oh, right. Sorry. I’ll take you up to the exercise room if you want to see her.”
     
    “Yes, I would. Thank you.”
     
    Marilyn grabbed her purse and we took an elevator to the building’s top floor, which opened onto a huge swimming pool, barbecue area, lounge and exercise room. That last was really a well-equipped gym, full of whirring, clanking, chrome-plated machines and wall-to-wall mirrors so you could admire your own sweaty, self-conscious industriousness.
     
    A row of treadmills sculpting already admirable female derrieres lined a far wall. Marilyn pointed to a woman in pastel gym shorts with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail hanging almost to her waist.
     
    “That’s Gaby,” she said.
     
    “You stay here,” I said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
     
    I walked across the room and stopped in front of Gaby Lopez’s treadmill. She wasn’t just pretty; she was drop-dead gorgeous. Slim and petite but with curves in all the right places. Soft, luxuriant hair the color of ink at midnight, creamy skin that could make cashmere feel like sandpaper. But even a thick coating of makeup couldn’t hide the bruise under one eye, the purple marks on her neck and wrists. She resolutely ignored me and kept her legs pumping as I took out my Public Interest business card and laid it on the treadmill console in front of her.
     
    “Gaby, I understand you’re Armando Gutierrez’s girlfriend,” I said, trying to keep my voice down but still audible over the humming machines. “I wonder if you could talk to me about him. You know he’s in jail for murder in San Francisco?”
     
    I don’t know if it was the mention of Armando Gutierrez’s name or his arrest that did it, but Gaby Lopez jerked backwards as if she’d just seen a rattlesnake, almost losing her footing and spinning off the treadmill. Before I could move or speak again she turned and fled, brushing past Marilyn at the door and running out into the dusk. I stood there like an idiot, all the workout junkies watching, then I picked up my card, put my head down and nodded at Marilyn to get going.
     
    She ignored me too—this was getting to be a habit—and instead continued glaring at a lean, muscular twentysomething with a shaven head and colorful dragon tattoos running down both arms who’d sat up on the bench of his weight-lifting machine and was giving us the hairy eyeball.
     
    “What that clown be mean-muggin’ me for?” she said. “I’m-a give him a taste of my gat.” She reached into her purse and I could see the black butt of a .38 Police Special in her hand. I grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand back into the purse.
     
    “Jesus Christ, Marilyn! Are you out of your mind?! You can’t be pulling guns on people here! And where did you learn to talk like that? You sound ridiculous.”
     
    “One of those cable shows. About the ‘hood. You feel me, dawg?”
     
    “No, goddammit, I

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