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skinny, maybe fourteen, dark brown paint done in heavy swirls all over her
bare scalp to look like some kind of fancy hairdo, but it didn't. She said,
"Spare one of those?" Now, maybe! "Depends. You do me somethin"."
"Sure. Any hole I got. All straight though, paisan! no burns, whips, stuff
like that." Her eyes widened. "Deal?"
Feeling pushed offbase, Grego shook his head. "None a that shit, kid.
All I want " He paused: how the hell ? "I just need a message took up to a
place, then you come back, tell me was anybody there and what they say.
You do that for me?" Narrowed eyes, then a nod. "Yeh sure. Two caps?"
"Right." He wrote the note, then the address. "Go now." But on second thought,
Grego decided to follow his scout.
Brad shook his head. Someone had trashed this place terminally; the axing of
the door was probably the latest and least of it. Looking around behind, in
the nervous way this area made him feel, he decided: having come all the way
down here, he wasn't leaving before checking the whole thing out.
The gun at his belt helped his confidence, but still when he was checking the
grimy, stinking bathroom and heard a noise in the main room behind him, he
jumped a little. As he turned around he grabbed the gun; on second thought he
held it down at his side and back out of sight.
Then, carefully, he peeked around the edge of the doorframe.
Hell, it was just a kid
! He said, "You want something?"
She shook her painted head. "Not if it bothers you." She looked around.
"You do all this yourself, or somebody do it to you?" Before he could answer,
she held out a piece of paper. "This is for you, I guess." As he took it, she
backed away and went out the door.
Unfolded, the paper wasn't easy to decipher. Stumbling over misspellings and
barely legible printing, Brad read aloud, "Amory we got to talk I didn't mean
to shoot you there's a lot of money in this and part yours so be "
"Reasonable," he guessed the word was supposed to be; then, just
"Grego."
"That's me. What you here for? Wreck my place, did ya?" And there, just inside
the shattered door, stood Grego Collins.
Meaning no threat, Brad gestured with the gun. Toward the mass of soggy,
charred rubble where the bed had been. "And put the fire out with piss and a
coffee cup? That mess has been there a while." At Grego's nod, Brad said, "I
don't know anything about this. I just ".
Grego gestured. "I do. Amory, it must of been. You showing up here, though "
"I brought your car back. Your gun, too, if we can work a deal." He spread his
arms. "I just want to talk with Clint."
"Well, I might " But behind Grego, Brad saw movement; he heard a wet-sounding
thud, and watched as blood came from Grego's mouth and the man crumpled to the
floor. Without thought the gun moved to cover the man behind Grego.
Amory Neill's knife didn't look as bloody as Brad would have expected.
Nonetheless, all the while looking Brad eye-to-eye, Amory stooped to wipe the
blade clean on Grego's jacket.
Then he stood. "You conked me, Jojo." Seeing the livid rawboned face, Brad
couldn't answer; he tried to hold the gun steady, as Neill said, "I
should oughta take you out for that. Except, maybe " His lopsided smile, then,
had an obscene look to it. "You said you got Grego's car here; gimme the
keys." Brad hesitated. "You don't wanna make me take "em."
So Brad handed the keys over. Amory said, "You buddies with that goddamn
Clint?" Headshake. "Awright then. Here's where the fucker's been stayin"& "
For a time, after Amory left, Brad waited. When he caught a bus some blocks
away, he realized he hadn't ditched the gun.
Awakened from an afternoon nap by Bardeen's call, Thane Cogdill adjusted his
phone to Scramble 2-B and tried to understand what the man was saying. "Found
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who? On the moon, you say?"
Kennet looked agitated, but he kept his voice even. "Amos Calhoun, the man I
killed there. You remember."
Thought ran slower these days, but memory did come. "Yes, of course.
And now, after all this time ?"
"Yes." Then the information came fast; Cogdill nodded, and Bardeen wrapped up
with, "So they know he was there to kill somebody, and Pidge says that sooner
or later someone will identify my picture that was with
Calhoun's notebook."
"The possibility does seem reasonable. In that event, what are your plans?"
Bardeen grimaced. "I thought you might have some ideas."
Cogdill thought about it. "Calhoun tried to kill you, didn't he?"
"He sure as hell did! But this late, having run away without reporting the
assault, I can hardly plead self-defense."
"Of course you can. And if it comes to that, you must. But first, I think you
should have our attorneys prepare a suit to be brought immediately, if and
when you are charged with the man's death against Calhoun."
"But he's dead! And what's my basis? What would I be suing him for?"
"For his felonious attempt to deprive you of your civil rights, such as
continuing to live. In both civil and criminal law there's a great deal of
precedent. And since yours would be a civil suit, you file against his estate
and/or his heirs."
"That's crazy!"
"No, Kennet. The law may well be irrational, but within its context, my
suggestion is quite legitimate."
Bardeen paused. "And would that keep me out of jail in the meantime?"
"I rather doubt it; the two processes are independent."
"But everything's coming to a head now. I
can't allow myself to be locked away, out of action, at this time."
"Then don't." For long moments, Cogdill looked at the other man's screened
image. "Kennet, at your disposal lie all the resources of the Feen.
Use them. Think, and use them."
As his screen dimmed, Bardeen thought, That's fine for you to say
.
Because, sure, if there were only himself to protect, he could figure ways to
do that. But what all those resources were lined up for, just now, was trying
to keep the Troy dos Caras situation from getting loose in public, and looking
toward protection of all the Mark Twos in case it did.
Bardeen shook his head. Maybe he could handle that task and maybe not; the
whole thing scared him.
But he damned well couldn't go on some kind of hideout maneuver, and take care
of the main problem at the same time. The logistics simply wouldn't work.
Later, at home, his false cheer didn't fool Jenny a bit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Trust a masochist to know what hurts! At first Annek Getzlor had thought Jody
Jay Tolliver was holding out on her, so she let Duane Eads take over, and
Duane hardly had to touch the Reverend to put the man's mouth into high gear.
Not that there was all that much to tell: a woman named Lesa Pfluge and a man [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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