On the Run by Paul Westwood Page A

apparently resting against her left thigh.
    I had my own gun, a Browning automatic, in my
duffel bag. I didn’t tell her about it. Instead, I licked my lips
and felt the cracked lines with my tongue. I said, “Don’t worry
about me, I’m harmless enough. I see you are traveling for the long
haul. Where are you headed?”
    She let out a little laugh which sounded like
music to my ears. “It’s a long story,” she said.
    I leaned into the seat, feeling the heat of
the cloth bite into my back. “It’s twenty miles to next gas
station. We’ve got plenty of time for a story.”
    Cat shot me a shy smile that revealed a fine
pattern of laugh lines on her pale face. They gave her character
and an honest beauty. The heat inside her felt like an oven. She
was sweating through her thin t-shirt. I could tell, like me, that
she wasn’t used to this climate. She said, “I’m afraid I’m running
back home with my tail between my legs.”
    “Something didn’t work out?”
    “You bet it didn’t work out. I traveled from
California to New York City almost three years ago, expecting to
strike it big on Broadway. I ended up working as a waitress, living
in a cockroach infested apartment, and getting a few bit parts in
some independent productions. It was hardly the life I
expected.”
    “Why New York?” I asked. “It seems that
Hollywood is a tad closer than traveling all the way across the
nation.”
    With a shake of her head, Cat said, “Ever
since I was a little girl, I was into plays and musicals. I guess I
never had much interest in films or television. So that’s why I
went there. Now I’m driving back to Bakersfield to go live with my
aunt. I’m hoping I can straighten out my life and find something
interesting to do.”
    “Fair enough,” I said with a nod.
    “How about you? What are you running
from?”
    “Me?” I snapped back with a shake of my head.
“Nothing.”
    “You’re not a very good liar,” Cat said. “I
saw how you reacted when that Lincoln drove by. Someone is looking
for you, aren’t they? You’re not a wanted outlaw or anything like
that?”
    I pulled my gaze from her and instead turned
my attention to the rolling landscape. There was nothing to look at
but sand and rocks. I finally said, “I’m a detective.”
    “You mean you work for the police?” she
asked, the tone of her voice one of distrust.
    “No, nothing like that. I’m a private
investigator working in Miami. I used to be a cop, but didn’t like
the brass telling me what to do. I got into the position where I
had to quit or else they would have fired me.”
    “I see. You’re a long way from home. So now
you work hiding in bushes, trying to catch women cheating on their
husbands?”
    “Something like that,” I said with a chuckle.
“Of course cheating goes both ways. I don’t like doing divorce
cases but for a man in my profession, they’re still the bread and
butter. Sometimes something more interesting comes up, which is a
blessing, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to handle the job for
long.”
    Cat seemed content with my answer.
    I continued on, “A few weeks ago I had a
woman named Carmen Salvatore come in. She wanted me to find
evidence that her husband was having an affair. At the time, I
didn’t think much of it and took the case. Little did I know that
her husband, Adrian, is a captain in the local mob. It was easy
enough to figure out that he was seeing a stripper from one of the
downtown clubs. I got pictures of Adrian meeting with her and then
taking her to a hotel. I also got a picture of him at the hotel
door, talking to another man. I didn’t think much of it at the
time, but that other man has to be someone important. Anyway, other
than the photo of the man, I turned the photos over to the wife,
fully expecting her to go through with a divorce.”
    “It all sounds rather seedy,” she commented.
“Why do you think that other man that this Adrian met is
important?”
    “I don’t know, but after I