One, a lean, pale-skinned man in his early thirties, was training a VCR camcorder on the others, recording the moment for posterity.
Gunner went unnoticed until his friend at the door pulled Mayes aside to point him out, making a brief, indiscernible comment as he did so. Mayes came forward and Gunner let him, as seven pairs of eyes looked him over like an unmarked parcel making ticking sounds on their doorstep.
“So you’re Gunner. Verna’s private cop.” Mayes appraised him with open amusement, chuckling briefly, expending little energy. “Something told me I’d be hearing from you, sooner or later.”
He was a smooth, heavy man with muscles, dark skinned and imposing. His hair cut down to a mere shadow on his scalp, he had large, almond-shaped eyes and an impeccable complexion, and his handshake was firm, unyielding. Gunner had read somewhere that he was closing in on forty, but he didn’t look it; there was a vibrancy about him that seldom reared its head beyond a man’s early twenties.
He had been followed over to Gunner’s side of the room by a short, spindly block of granite with a stone wall’s disposition, a cool little youngblood whose clothes fit his body like a thin coat of paint, and he watched Gunner square off with Mayes the way guards at the Louvre watch patrons admire the Mona Lisa.
“Mouse” was a damn good name for him.
“I’m predictable like that,” Gunner said, his eyes on Mouse. “Seems like something’s always telling somebody where I’m going, or what I’m about to do next. Sometimes even why.”
“‘Why’ is a given. You’re a cop. And cops pick brains. You’re here to pick mine.”
Mayes smiled. Gunner wasn’t fond of his choice of words, but was disinclined to mention it. “If you want to look at it that way,” he said.
“I’d rather not look at it at all, you want to know the truth. It’s been a long day.” Mayes looked over his shoulder at Mouse. “Hasn’t it, Brother M.?”
Mouse kept his eyes on Gunner and nodded, his tiny head moving obliquely.
Mayes grinned and turned around again. “Forgive my manners. This is Brother Stokes, our captain of the guard. Some of the Brothers have been known to call him Mouse on occasion, but not to his face. Never to his face. He’s a sensitive man, Brother M.”
“I’ll only need five minutes,” Gunner said, getting edgy.
Mayes stopped smiling. “I’m sorry, Cop. But I’m afraid I can’t see where talking to you would accomplish anything. In fact, I doubt it ever does.” He turned away to leave.
Gunner grabbed him just above the right elbow and spun him around, glowering. “Five minutes , Mayes,” he said, drawing Mayes to him, as Mouse and the others converged upon him in a concerted swarm.
The largest two Brothers in the group, the bouquet-headed kid at the door and another, leaner man, took him from behind, pulling him away from Mayes, and secured his arms, holding him for Mouse. As Mayes stepped clear, Mouse closed in, but not fast enough: Gunner broke his right hand loose and jarred the little man with it, hammering Mouse’s cheekbone just below the left eye. The doorman’s friend to Gunner’s right drove a fist like a jackhammer into the investigator’s rib cage once, twice, and doubled him up, giving Mouse a moment to recover. In short order Mouse retaliated with an overhand left, then straightened the detective up again with a knee under Gunner’s chin.
He tried to follow with a looping overhand right, but Mayes stepped in to intercede.
“The man obviously takes his work more seriously than I,” he said, watching Gunner crumple to the floor as the giants behind him released him. “He’s deluded. Not dangerous.”
On his knees, Gunner held his insides in place with an open hand and raised his head, licking blood and perspiration from one corner of his mouth. The Brother with the VCR camcorder was still rolling tape, aiming the instrument’s large convex eye squarely on him,
Gunner went unnoticed until his friend at the door pulled Mayes aside to point him out, making a brief, indiscernible comment as he did so. Mayes came forward and Gunner let him, as seven pairs of eyes looked him over like an unmarked parcel making ticking sounds on their doorstep.
“So you’re Gunner. Verna’s private cop.” Mayes appraised him with open amusement, chuckling briefly, expending little energy. “Something told me I’d be hearing from you, sooner or later.”
He was a smooth, heavy man with muscles, dark skinned and imposing. His hair cut down to a mere shadow on his scalp, he had large, almond-shaped eyes and an impeccable complexion, and his handshake was firm, unyielding. Gunner had read somewhere that he was closing in on forty, but he didn’t look it; there was a vibrancy about him that seldom reared its head beyond a man’s early twenties.
He had been followed over to Gunner’s side of the room by a short, spindly block of granite with a stone wall’s disposition, a cool little youngblood whose clothes fit his body like a thin coat of paint, and he watched Gunner square off with Mayes the way guards at the Louvre watch patrons admire the Mona Lisa.
“Mouse” was a damn good name for him.
“I’m predictable like that,” Gunner said, his eyes on Mouse. “Seems like something’s always telling somebody where I’m going, or what I’m about to do next. Sometimes even why.”
“‘Why’ is a given. You’re a cop. And cops pick brains. You’re here to pick mine.”
Mayes smiled. Gunner wasn’t fond of his choice of words, but was disinclined to mention it. “If you want to look at it that way,” he said.
“I’d rather not look at it at all, you want to know the truth. It’s been a long day.” Mayes looked over his shoulder at Mouse. “Hasn’t it, Brother M.?”
Mouse kept his eyes on Gunner and nodded, his tiny head moving obliquely.
Mayes grinned and turned around again. “Forgive my manners. This is Brother Stokes, our captain of the guard. Some of the Brothers have been known to call him Mouse on occasion, but not to his face. Never to his face. He’s a sensitive man, Brother M.”
“I’ll only need five minutes,” Gunner said, getting edgy.
Mayes stopped smiling. “I’m sorry, Cop. But I’m afraid I can’t see where talking to you would accomplish anything. In fact, I doubt it ever does.” He turned away to leave.
Gunner grabbed him just above the right elbow and spun him around, glowering. “Five minutes , Mayes,” he said, drawing Mayes to him, as Mouse and the others converged upon him in a concerted swarm.
The largest two Brothers in the group, the bouquet-headed kid at the door and another, leaner man, took him from behind, pulling him away from Mayes, and secured his arms, holding him for Mouse. As Mayes stepped clear, Mouse closed in, but not fast enough: Gunner broke his right hand loose and jarred the little man with it, hammering Mouse’s cheekbone just below the left eye. The doorman’s friend to Gunner’s right drove a fist like a jackhammer into the investigator’s rib cage once, twice, and doubled him up, giving Mouse a moment to recover. In short order Mouse retaliated with an overhand left, then straightened the detective up again with a knee under Gunner’s chin.
He tried to follow with a looping overhand right, but Mayes stepped in to intercede.
“The man obviously takes his work more seriously than I,” he said, watching Gunner crumple to the floor as the giants behind him released him. “He’s deluded. Not dangerous.”
On his knees, Gunner held his insides in place with an open hand and raised his head, licking blood and perspiration from one corner of his mouth. The Brother with the VCR camcorder was still rolling tape, aiming the instrument’s large convex eye squarely on him,
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