Setup on Front Street by Mike Dennis Page B

story, call his mother."
    I flagged down the bartender. "Give my
friend here another cold one," I said. He brought the beer. I threw a five
on the bar.
    I looked back at Milton.
    "You were a good boy today. You
deserve a drink on me."
    I headed for the door, but he called after
me. "Doyle!" I turned back to him. He was still rubbing his finger
and his hand. "That … that girlfriend of yours..."
    I was back on him in an eyeblink, grabbing
his shirt collar. "What did you say?"
    "I …
well … I just …"
    "Give."
    I took his head between my big hands, ready
to crush him to dust.
    "I just don't go along with hurting
women, you know what I mean? So I'm telling you … Bradley … he's capped the
deal with this Yuri guy. Your girlfriend's next."
    "What?"
    "You heard me. But you didn't get it
from me, you understand? I'm just telling you 'cause I don't think it's right.
Hurting women, I mean. Especially when they don't have it coming."
    I grabbed his shirt front, then shook him
once. Hard.
    It was all I could do to control my fury. "Why
does Whitney want to kill her? She doesn't know anything. She's no threat to
him at all."
    He rubbed his wrist, then his forearm. I
could tell   the soreness was creeping up
toward his elbow. I shook him so hard, he wheezed his answer.
    "Bradley tells me you pissed the old
man off the other day. Icing the girl is his way of getting back at you."
    Before he finished his sentence, I was out
the door.

EIGHTEEN

 
    I raced back to Norma's.
    On the way, I realized what was going on. I
got under Whitney's skin, all right, like no one else had probably done in a
long time. He could see I wasn't afraid of Ortega, that I wasn't going to take
any of this sitting down.
    Only problem was, he couldn't kill me as
long as the frame for Sully's murder was holding. If I went down for it, that
put him in the clear. So it figured that Norma had to go as my punishment for
getting uppity with him.
    Running from the car to her apartment
building, then up two flights of stairs, I pulled my .22 as I ran down the
hallway toward her apartment. Everything looked okay, but I clung to the wall
as I neared the door.
    I heard the radio playing inside. Country
music, Norma's favorite. Slowly, I reached for the doorknob, turning it,
pushing the door back an inch at a time. The music became clearer — a
Merle Haggard weeper.
    When I got the door all the way open, I
peered inside. I could only see into the living room. Nothing out of order.
    I edged my way in, both hands on my gun.
From my left, a figure darted out of the kitchen, startling me.
    "Hi, honey."
    It was Norma.
    I let out a huge exhale. Replacing the gun
into my waistband, I took her in my arms.
    "You scared the shit out of me, you
know that?" I said.
    "Why? What's — the gun — why did you have your gun out?"
    I pulled myself together quickly.
    "Has anyone been here? Anyone at
all?"
    "No. Why?"
    "Any phone calls? Anything out of the
ordinary?"
    "No,
nothing … well … there was a phone call a few minutes ago, but that wasn't
—"
    "Who? Who was it?" I shook
her.
    "Stop
it! You're —"
    I stopped.
    "Who was it?"
    Her eyes regained that innocence I
remembered from so long ago. The look I carried around in my head during my
years in the joint.
    "It was only the building
manager."
    "What'd he want?"
    "He said there was an electrical
problem or something — oh, I don't know, something about circuit breakers
— and that he was sending two electricians up to take care of it. He
wanted to make sure I'd be here to let them in."
    I grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the
door.
    "We're out of here."
    She resisted, slowing me down.
    "Don Roy! What's going on? What's this
all about?"
    I kept moving, dragging her behind me until
she finally caught up. We took the stairs down. I held her back as I scoped out
the parking area. No movement anywhere, so we made a break for the car.
    Fortunately, her apartment complex was laid
out in a pretty confusing manner. Poorly-marked