unlocked.
14
“H ELLO, S HOOTER.”
His reaction when I tore open the door and swung into the seat beside him holding the revolver was classic. He looked at me, his eyes and mouth fell open, and he tried to do a number of things: claw for the Beretta on the dashboard, punch the accelerator, bail out through the door on his side. I swept the Smith & Wesson’s barrel against his forehead, twisted the pistol out of his grip—its weight said he’d loaded it this time—hurled it over my shoulder through the open door, and grabbed the wheel. We were rocketing across a quiet intersection toward a light-pole on the corner. I threw us into a sliding stop and hit him again. He groaned and sagged against me. I pushed him back and held him.
“I’d give you another lick, but I don’t want to bend the barrel, and I need you awake,” I said, panting a little. “Can you drive?”
“Man, I can’t even see.”
“If you can talk you can drive. You’re going to do both.”
“What about my gun?”
“It landed in a ditch with all the other hot iron in town. Turn the key.” The engine had stalled.
“Where we going?”
“We’re paying a visit to the Colonel.”
He gave me a sideways look. His right eye had swollen almost shut. “Colonel who?”
“My line. That was who you were going to introduce me to tonight, wasn’t it? The man to see about a fifty-caliber machine gun or a Polaris missile? Pesky private eyes disposed of while you wait?”
“Man, you must of hit me hard. I don’t understand a word.”
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt—another tank top—and rammed the muzzle under his chin. “Not as hard as if I use it the way it was designed. Drive.”
He started the engine. I let go of him, pulled my door shut, and rested back against it with the gun propped on my knee while he swung the pickup back into the lane and headed deeper into the neighborhoods.
I said, “That was a military operation. Military operations mean commanders. What’d you tell him that made him put the bee on me?”
“Snuffings ain’t my scene, man. What happened back there was a surprise.”
“It was supposed to be. What’d you tell him?”
“What you said. You was a customer looking for heavy shit.”
“A man who does business like that runs out of customers in a hurry. What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Shooter . . .”
“Okay, okay. He a man likes to axe questions. I said you a P.I. named Walker.”
“Is that when he asked you to finger me, or did he do some checking and get back to you?”
“I didn’t finger you, man.”
“Shooter, Shooter,” I said. “I won’t cap you for setting me up. You get stuck in the middle, you take sides to live. Just don’t insult me by denying it. That makes me angry. An angry man with a gun.”
A blue-and-white passed us heading in the opposite direction, its lights and siren going. Its slipstream shook the pickup’s rusty sheet metal.
“He called me back,” Shooter said then.
“He say why he was taking me out?”
“Man, he didn’t say he was taking you out. I just sell guns.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s his name?”
He licked his lips. “Seabrook.”
“Never heard of him. What’s he colonel of?”
“I never axed him. He buys and sells.”
“Did he do business with Doyle Thayer Junior?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Waldo Stoudenmire?”
“Sturdy?” He grinned lopsidedly, favoring the right side of his face. “Sturdy don’t know a butt from a trigger.”
“Somebody taught him. Just before he died.”
“Sturdy’s dead?”
“That’s what Ma Chaney said. Know anything about it?”
“Man, I hardly knowed Sturdy. We didn’t have the same clientele.”
“Sure you did. Doyle Thayer Junior.”
“I don’t know no juniors.”
“Too fast, Shooter.” A fire truck wailed past, one of the new ugly yellow-green jobs. “I don’t care what business you had with him. I don’t even know if Sturdy getting dead, if he’s dead,
14
“H ELLO, S HOOTER.”
His reaction when I tore open the door and swung into the seat beside him holding the revolver was classic. He looked at me, his eyes and mouth fell open, and he tried to do a number of things: claw for the Beretta on the dashboard, punch the accelerator, bail out through the door on his side. I swept the Smith & Wesson’s barrel against his forehead, twisted the pistol out of his grip—its weight said he’d loaded it this time—hurled it over my shoulder through the open door, and grabbed the wheel. We were rocketing across a quiet intersection toward a light-pole on the corner. I threw us into a sliding stop and hit him again. He groaned and sagged against me. I pushed him back and held him.
“I’d give you another lick, but I don’t want to bend the barrel, and I need you awake,” I said, panting a little. “Can you drive?”
“Man, I can’t even see.”
“If you can talk you can drive. You’re going to do both.”
“What about my gun?”
“It landed in a ditch with all the other hot iron in town. Turn the key.” The engine had stalled.
“Where we going?”
“We’re paying a visit to the Colonel.”
He gave me a sideways look. His right eye had swollen almost shut. “Colonel who?”
“My line. That was who you were going to introduce me to tonight, wasn’t it? The man to see about a fifty-caliber machine gun or a Polaris missile? Pesky private eyes disposed of while you wait?”
“Man, you must of hit me hard. I don’t understand a word.”
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt—another tank top—and rammed the muzzle under his chin. “Not as hard as if I use it the way it was designed. Drive.”
He started the engine. I let go of him, pulled my door shut, and rested back against it with the gun propped on my knee while he swung the pickup back into the lane and headed deeper into the neighborhoods.
I said, “That was a military operation. Military operations mean commanders. What’d you tell him that made him put the bee on me?”
“Snuffings ain’t my scene, man. What happened back there was a surprise.”
“It was supposed to be. What’d you tell him?”
“What you said. You was a customer looking for heavy shit.”
“A man who does business like that runs out of customers in a hurry. What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Shooter . . .”
“Okay, okay. He a man likes to axe questions. I said you a P.I. named Walker.”
“Is that when he asked you to finger me, or did he do some checking and get back to you?”
“I didn’t finger you, man.”
“Shooter, Shooter,” I said. “I won’t cap you for setting me up. You get stuck in the middle, you take sides to live. Just don’t insult me by denying it. That makes me angry. An angry man with a gun.”
A blue-and-white passed us heading in the opposite direction, its lights and siren going. Its slipstream shook the pickup’s rusty sheet metal.
“He called me back,” Shooter said then.
“He say why he was taking me out?”
“Man, he didn’t say he was taking you out. I just sell guns.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s his name?”
He licked his lips. “Seabrook.”
“Never heard of him. What’s he colonel of?”
“I never axed him. He buys and sells.”
“Did he do business with Doyle Thayer Junior?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Waldo Stoudenmire?”
“Sturdy?” He grinned lopsidedly, favoring the right side of his face. “Sturdy don’t know a butt from a trigger.”
“Somebody taught him. Just before he died.”
“Sturdy’s dead?”
“That’s what Ma Chaney said. Know anything about it?”
“Man, I hardly knowed Sturdy. We didn’t have the same clientele.”
“Sure you did. Doyle Thayer Junior.”
“I don’t know no juniors.”
“Too fast, Shooter.” A fire truck wailed past, one of the new ugly yellow-green jobs. “I don’t care what business you had with him. I don’t even know if Sturdy getting dead, if he’s dead,
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