move, the Four Ponies turned the pinball sound effects and the jukebox’s volume way up high. Screaming your head off was common practice at the bar.
At the moment, the bar’s owner was using the universal sign language of green paper. Harry saw the cash flash in the mirror even before the off-duty cop playing one of the video games did. Harry slowly swung around, slipped off the stool, and started shouldering his way toward the back.
He saw the off-duty cop staring intently at the “Asteroids” screen. Stupidly, he had agreed to play another patron. Not only was the extra man blocking some of the cop’s line of sight, it made the officer too intent on the game. He seemed more interested in winning than paying attention to Thurston.
Harry looked back to the table. Thurston slid his hand over the wad of money and drew it toward the edge of the table. In a few seconds it would be over the lip and as far as any of the straight cops were concerned, gone for good. Harry glanced back at the off-duty officer. He was cursing his luck as a video-created hunk of rock destroyed the video ship he was piloting. Then he patiently waited for his score to appear.
Harry didn’t know whether to jump the table or smack the cop on the side of the head. No wonder Striker was able to get control of the city, Callahan marveled. With cops like these, Nash needed all the help he could get.
After a millisecond’s deliberation, Harry decided to hit the table. Thurston’s hand had palmed the cash and was just about to slip it into his coat when an iron-hard grip latched onto his wrist, squeezed like a boa constrictor, and pulled the money hand out for all to see.
It was Harry’s right hand that gripped Thurston’s. In Harry’s left hand was the off-duty cop’s collar. With the money held somewhere between Thurston’s chin and the eggplant parmigiana, Harry pulled the cop until his thighs were bouncing off the table edge and his eyes were bouncing from face to face.
“Glen Thurston,” said Harry, “I’d like you to meet a San Antonio police officer. Officer, this is Mr. Thurston.” Harry looked from one man to the other until the full implications of the situation were obvious to both. “I hope you two will be very happy together,” he finished, opening his hands and moving behind the cop. “Read him his rights, asshole,” Harry instructed.
Glen Thurston had no intention of waiting around to hear them. With a roar befitting a man of his size, he placed his hands on the seat of his chair, lifted his legs, and kicked over the heavy wooden table.
The edge of the circular furniture came down on the cop’s toes while the top section pushed against his lower legs. The off-duty officer fell forward and sideways at the same time, pain rocketing up his limbs. The bar owner sat aghast as the three Striker representatives went every which way but loose.
Harry was there to make sure they didn’t get loose. The guy to Thurston’s right came straight at Callahan. In no mood to discuss anything, Harry made sure the man met his right fist head-on. The guy to Thurston’s left slid out from behind the felled table and slipped behind the partition between the bar and the rest rooms.
This partition, which stretched from one end of the room to the other was dotted with openings so the bartender could make sure no one skipped out on his check. Through one of these openings, the guy to Thurston’s left poked the barrel of a snubnose gun.
Harry didn’t wait to see who it might be pointed at. He ripped out his own gun, which was anything but snubnose, and shot right through the partition.
A hole the size of which was usually attributable to a shotgun blast appeared in the partition as the guy to Thurston’s left flew backward in the company of tiny, spinning shards and streams of his own blood. His snubnose spun in the air like a yo-yo at the apex of its flight, then dropped to the ground.
Harry pivoted toward Thurston himself. The
At the moment, the bar’s owner was using the universal sign language of green paper. Harry saw the cash flash in the mirror even before the off-duty cop playing one of the video games did. Harry slowly swung around, slipped off the stool, and started shouldering his way toward the back.
He saw the off-duty cop staring intently at the “Asteroids” screen. Stupidly, he had agreed to play another patron. Not only was the extra man blocking some of the cop’s line of sight, it made the officer too intent on the game. He seemed more interested in winning than paying attention to Thurston.
Harry looked back to the table. Thurston slid his hand over the wad of money and drew it toward the edge of the table. In a few seconds it would be over the lip and as far as any of the straight cops were concerned, gone for good. Harry glanced back at the off-duty officer. He was cursing his luck as a video-created hunk of rock destroyed the video ship he was piloting. Then he patiently waited for his score to appear.
Harry didn’t know whether to jump the table or smack the cop on the side of the head. No wonder Striker was able to get control of the city, Callahan marveled. With cops like these, Nash needed all the help he could get.
After a millisecond’s deliberation, Harry decided to hit the table. Thurston’s hand had palmed the cash and was just about to slip it into his coat when an iron-hard grip latched onto his wrist, squeezed like a boa constrictor, and pulled the money hand out for all to see.
It was Harry’s right hand that gripped Thurston’s. In Harry’s left hand was the off-duty cop’s collar. With the money held somewhere between Thurston’s chin and the eggplant parmigiana, Harry pulled the cop until his thighs were bouncing off the table edge and his eyes were bouncing from face to face.
“Glen Thurston,” said Harry, “I’d like you to meet a San Antonio police officer. Officer, this is Mr. Thurston.” Harry looked from one man to the other until the full implications of the situation were obvious to both. “I hope you two will be very happy together,” he finished, opening his hands and moving behind the cop. “Read him his rights, asshole,” Harry instructed.
Glen Thurston had no intention of waiting around to hear them. With a roar befitting a man of his size, he placed his hands on the seat of his chair, lifted his legs, and kicked over the heavy wooden table.
The edge of the circular furniture came down on the cop’s toes while the top section pushed against his lower legs. The off-duty officer fell forward and sideways at the same time, pain rocketing up his limbs. The bar owner sat aghast as the three Striker representatives went every which way but loose.
Harry was there to make sure they didn’t get loose. The guy to Thurston’s right came straight at Callahan. In no mood to discuss anything, Harry made sure the man met his right fist head-on. The guy to Thurston’s left slid out from behind the felled table and slipped behind the partition between the bar and the rest rooms.
This partition, which stretched from one end of the room to the other was dotted with openings so the bartender could make sure no one skipped out on his check. Through one of these openings, the guy to Thurston’s left poked the barrel of a snubnose gun.
Harry didn’t wait to see who it might be pointed at. He ripped out his own gun, which was anything but snubnose, and shot right through the partition.
A hole the size of which was usually attributable to a shotgun blast appeared in the partition as the guy to Thurston’s left flew backward in the company of tiny, spinning shards and streams of his own blood. His snubnose spun in the air like a yo-yo at the apex of its flight, then dropped to the ground.
Harry pivoted toward Thurston himself. The
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