The Righteous Cut by Robert Skinner Page B

kinds of sorry, but then it’ll be too late. Now get on. You know where my room is, so be quiet. I don’t want any of Ma Rankin’s customers bein’ disturbed by your clumsy-ass foolishness. Go on, now.”
    Skeeter felt wounded and confused by Mabel’s tirade. She’d never talked like this before, and it shocked him to hear her criticism. He walked up the back stairs to Mabel’s room, wishing he could think of something intelligent to say. The sudden recognition of a missed opportunity stabbed him like an old maid’s hatpin. He undressed and lay down, falling into an exhausted sleep.
    ***
    Farrell visited several places that evening that housed illegal gambling operations before a card shark, Uther Kalbfischer, told him where to find Fletch Monaghan. It was approaching ten-thirty when he pulled up in front of Ledet’s Bar across from Holy Name of Jesus Church on LaSalle.
    Ledet’s had a Mexican bouncer named Maldonado who Farrell knew from Prohibition times. Twice they had fought, and twice Farrell had licked him. It was Maldonado’s glory and his curse that no matter how many fights he lost, he was always ready to fight again. He stood near the entrance as Farrell entered, immediately recognizing his old nemesis.
    â€œWhat you want, Farrell?”
    Farrell shoved his hands into his pockets in the hope of disarming the Mexican. He looked at him with an air of boredom. “No trouble. I just want to talk to Monaghan.”
    Maldonado’s eyes made a slow examination of Farrell’s person, his dark mustache twitching occasionally from an upper lip that wanted to sneer. When he saw no tell-tale bulges in Farrell’s clothes, he moved his head to the right. “He’s at that table in the corner. He ain’t makin’ no trouble, and neither are you, see? I got two other men here, and you can’t take all three of us,
comprende
?”
    Farrell somehow managed to keep the annoyance he felt from his face. “I said I only wanted to talk to him. If I wanted trouble, you’d know it already.”
    Maldonado carefully inspected those words for a challenge. “Go on over there, then. But if he don’t want to talk to you, you drift,
sabe
?”
    â€œ
Si, senor. Gracias
.” Farrell made a slight detour around the bouncer and threaded his way through the crowd of drinkers to the table in the corner. As he drew near it, Monaghan lifted his narrow, handsome face from the game of solitaire laid out before him. His hat was tipped to the back of his skull, allowing a lock of curly black hair to dribble over his left eye.
    â€œHello, Fletch. Long time, no see.”
    â€œThe name of this game is solitaire, Farrell. Be a good fella and dust.”
    Farrell ignored the rebuff, pulled up a chair and sat down across from the gambler. “Been here long?”
    Monaghan’s dark eyes flashed on either side of his long, thin nose. “You and me got nothin’ to talk about.”
    â€œHow about Whit Richards?”
    The gambler’s eyes flattened for a brief second, then shifted back down to his cards. “How about him? Did he fall down an open manhole? Or maybe did a bus flatten him like a Derry pancake?”
    Farrell smiled. “You’re trying to convince me that you don’t know two of his top men have been murdered in the last two days? Or maybe nobody told you about his kidnapped daughter? That’s funny, Fletch. I’m gonna bust a gut laughing in a minute.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned toward the gambler. The frigid gleam of his gray eyes stabbed out at Monaghan.
    â€œI don’t give a damn about you bustin’ a gut, bhoyo. If ya don’t get your face outa mine, I’ll bust somethin’ else for ya, by Christ.”
    Farrell didn’t move, nor did his expression change. “I don’t know why you’d want to. I know what Richards did. It happens he’s pulled a thing or