High Hunt by David Eddings Page A

patio,” Claudia said.
    â€œThinkin’ ahead, eh, Claude?” Jack said boisterously. “If somebody gets sick, you don’t have to get the rug cleaned.”
    I cringed.
    â€œWell,” she said, laughing, “it’s cooler out there.”
    â€œWhich one of you bastards can tap a keg?” Sloane screamed. “I’m afraid to touch the goddamn thing.”
    â€œHelp is on the way,” Mike called. We went on through the dining room and the kitchen and on out to the patio through the sliding French doors.
    â€œI’m sure you fellows can manage now,” Claudia said, picking up a pair of black gloves from the kitchen table and coming over to stand in the open doorway. “I have to run, so just make yourselves at home.” She raised her voice slightly, obviously talking to Sloane. “Just remember to keep the screens closed on the French doors. I don’t want a house full of bugs.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Sloane yelped, coming to attention and throwing her a mock salute.
    â€œClown,” she said, smiling. She started to pull on the gloves, smoothing each finger carefully. “Oh, Calvin, I finished with the books for the car lot and the pawnshop. Be sure to put them where you can find them Monday morning— before you swandive into that beer keg.”
    â€œHave we got any money?” Cal asked.
    â€œWe’ll get by,” she said. “Be sure and remind Charlie and Mel out at the Hideout that I’ll be by to check their books on Tuesday.”
    â€œRight,” he said. He turned to us. “My wife, the IBM machine.”
    â€œSomebody has to do the books,” she said placidly, still working on the gloves, “and after I watched this great financier add two and two and get five about nine times out of ten, I decided that it was going to be up to me to keep us out of bankruptcy court.” She smiled sweetly at him, and he made a face.
    â€œI’m so glad to have met you, Dan,” she said, holding her hand out to me again. Her deep musical voice sent a shiver up my back. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
    â€œI’d hate to think we were driving you out of your own house,” I said sincerely.
    â€œNo, no. I have a meeting downtown, and then I’m running over to Yakima to visit an aunt. I’d just be in the way here anyway. You boys have fun.” She raised her voice again. “I’ll see you Monday evening, Calvin.”
    He waved a brusque farewell and turned his attention back to the beer keg.
    She looked at him for a moment, sighed, and went smoothly on back into the house. I suddenly wanted very much to go down to the patio and give Sloane a good solid shot to the mouth. A kiss on the cheek by way of good-bye wouldn’t have inconvenienced him all that much, and it would have spared her the humiliation of that public brush-off.
    I went slowly down the three steps to the patio, staring out over the Narrows and the dark timber on the other side.
    There was a sudden burst of spray from the keg and a solid “klunk” as Mike set the tap home. “There you go, men,” he said. “The beer-drinking lamp is lit.”
    â€œWell, ahoy there, matey,” Jack said, putting it on a bit too much.
    The first pitcher was foam, and Sloane dumped it in the fishpond. “Drink, you little bastards.” He giggled.
    Somebody, Claudia probably, had set a trayful of beer mugs up on a permanently anchored picnic table under one of the trees. I got one of them and filled it at the keg and drifted over to the edge of the patio where the hill broke sharply away, running down to the tangled Scotch-broom and madrona thicket below.
    I could hear the others horsing around back at the keg, but I ignored them for the moment, concentrating on the fading line of daylight along the top of the hills across the Narrows.
    â€œPretty, huh?”
    It was Sloane. He stood with a