Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery)
“I gave it half an hour to let everyone settle down, then availed of the phone on the bedside locker, one of the very few perks that go with being unofficially jailed in a private hospital room under a false name while the Guardians of the Peace wait to see if black ops will work the oracle.
Directory Enquiries put me through to the hospital’s reception desk, where I asked the receptionist to connect me with Pamela Devine. There followed a couple of minutes of clicks, brrrs and false starts, and... then she picked up.
‘Hello?’ ‘Hey. It’s Harry.’ A sigh not notable for its quality of unrequited longing, then: ‘Did you get to see him?’ ‘Not exactly. But I just wanted to say thanks.’ ‘My arse. What do you want?’ ‘It’s my eye.’ ‘Don’t worry about it. The trauma to the—’ ‘Not that one. My good eye. It’s dazzled.’ ‘Dazzled?’ ‘By your radiance. I’m thinking martinis on the terrace at dusk.’ The old familiar dirty chuckle. ‘Let’s just get through to dawn first.MoreLess
Directory Enquiries put me through to the hospital’s reception desk, where I asked the receptionist to connect me with Pamela Devine. There followed a couple of minutes of clicks, brrrs and false starts, and... then she picked up.
‘Hello?’ ‘Hey. It’s Harry.’ A sigh not notable for its quality of unrequited longing, then: ‘Did you get to see him?’ ‘Not exactly. But I just wanted to say thanks.’ ‘My arse. What do you want?’ ‘It’s my eye.’ ‘Don’t worry about it. The trauma to the—’ ‘Not that one. My good eye. It’s dazzled.’ ‘Dazzled?’ ‘By your radiance. I’m thinking martinis on the terrace at dusk.’ The old familiar dirty chuckle. ‘Let’s just get through to dawn first.MoreLess
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