Morgan was a little slow remembering his lines but finally said, “I want that too.”
She stood, dramatic, jaw set. Morgan could almost hear the music swelling. Ginny looked like a chubby Scarlett O’Hara. “Farewell, Professor Morgan.”
Morgan flipped her a wave. “So long.”
“Well, you could at least act a
Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m in a shitstorm here. I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine.” She began to stomp out of the tavern.
“Ginny,” he called after her. When she turned around, Morgan cleared his throat, and said, “I’m sorry about that guy. Sorry you got hurt.”
Her features softened. She nodded once and left.
Morgan tossed his drink down and took the empty glass to the bar. He took a stool next to an elegantly dressed black man and ordered another drink from the bartender.
Morgan turned to the black man. “Some snow, huh?” A little random small talk would get him back on track.
“I’ve found the local forecasts to be wildly inaccurate.” The black man had a deep, articulate voice. Chin up, bright eyes. He carried himself well. “It will get worse, I think.”
Morgan suddenly felt clumsy, his fingers thick and stubby. He reached for his glass and knocked over a bowl of peanuts. “Shit.”
“I’ll get that for you, sir,” said the bartender.
“Yeah, thanks.” Thanks came out
“I know.”
“Bunch of crap,” Morgan said. “A big public relations show.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Professor Morgan.”
“Yeah, well I can’t really say- Have we met?” The man did look familiar.
The man stood, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “I’m Lincoln Truman. President of the university.”
Morgan’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a trout out of water. President Lincoln Truman walked out of the tavern, his back straight. He didn’t look back at Morgan.
Hell.
forty-two
Moses Duncan lost DelPrego going up the stairs. Did the guy get off at the third or fourth floor? Or did he keep going all the way up? Shit.
Duncan stopped on the fourth and drew his dad’s revolver. If he couldn’t find the guy after a quick sweep there, he’d head up to the fifth to look for him. He thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. Be damned if they would catch Moses Duncan with his pants around his ankles.
He listened for footsteps but didn’t hear any. He didn’t hear anything at all as a matter of fact. The floor looked deserted. Dust. Only one in four light fixtures had a bulb in it. No signs on the doors. He went down one hall, crossed over, found himself in a similar dusty corridor.
Duncan heard footsteps behind him and froze. He spun around, pressed back against the wall, pistol out in front of him.
The steps came closer. Duncan extended his arm, gun aimed at the corner. Soon as that guy came around, he was toast. Duncan had come gunning for the guy, but now the guy was coming up behind him. Maybe he had his coon buddy with him. Wouldn’t matter. Moses would get the drop on their sorry asses and blast them to hell.
The guy rounded the corner, and Duncan’s finger tightened on the trigger.
It was Maurice.
Duncan pulled the gun back, blew out a ragged breath. “What the hell you doing here?”
“Zach thought you might need some backup,” Maurice said.
It occurred to Duncan that Maurice would severely fuck up his plan. He should have pulled the trigger, dropped this sucker when he had the chance. As a matter of fact… Duncan considered the pistol at his side, his hand squeezing the butt, tensing.
But Maurice had his automatic in his hands, brought it up, and pointed it at Duncan’s head. “I don’t like that look in your eyes, peckerwood. You’re looking twitchy. You’re not thinking bad thoughts, are you?”
Duncan looked down the barrel of Maurice’s gun. Could he get his pistol up in time? Probably not. Duncan forced a weak smile. “If I’m twitchy it’s ’cause you’re sneaking up on me. Makes a fella nervous, don’t you think?”
“I hear you.” Maurice held out his free hand, kept the pistol steady with the other. “Why don’t you hand me that peashooter? I’ll give it back when maybe you ain’t so nervous.”
Duncan laughed, shrugged. “Okay. No need to get all suspicious.” He turned the pistol around, handed it to Maurice butt first.
Maurice took it, put it in the big front pocket of his long coat. Then he looked around, took in the fourth floor, the dust. “This place ain’t even being used. What the fuck you up here for anyway?”
“I think he might’ve gone in there.” Duncan pointed at a door across the hall.
Maurice turned his head, examined the door. “Don’t look like anybody’s been in there for a long-”
The Colt thundered, filled the hall, bucked in Duncan’s hand. The.45 slug tore into Maurice’s shoulder, spun him around, a spray of blood dotting the walls and floor. Maurice grunted, went down. He struggled to lift the automatic.
Duncan stepped on Maurice’s wrist, and the gangster’s gun clattered on the tile. Duncan thumbed back the Colt’s hammer.
Maurice’s face was sweaty, contorted with pain. “F-fucking p-peckerwood.”
The Colt roared again and a red splotch bloomed in Maurice’s gut. Blood spread over him. Maurice clapped a hand over the gushing wound, warm blood seeping sticky between his fingers. “Oh, shit. Y-you redneck fucking… shit.” Maurice’s eyes glazed. He couldn’t keep his head up.
Duncan hovered over him, kept the Colt pointed at the man’s face. Maurice’s head sank to the cold tile. He twitched, gasped for breath, then didn’t move. Very slowly, Duncan reached into Maurice’s front pocket, retrieved his daddy’s revolver. He stepped back, watched the body for another moment. For some reason he thought it would spring back up, come after him like in a horror movie. It didn’t. He’d finished the dirty son of a bitch.
Duncan tucked his guns back into his pants. Now he needed to find his way off this floor. He looked up and down the hall, trying to remember how he’d come in. All these damn doors and hallways looked the same. He made his decision and set off to find the stairs.
He didn’t see Maurice roll onto his side, coughing blood. Didn’t see the gangster pull the cell phone out of his pocket with shaking, blood-soaked hands.
“Boss?”
“I heard. Go check it out,” Fred Jones told his big bodyguard.
“Shots,” Jenks said. “Sounded like the floor below us.”
“Right.”
“You going to be okay without me?” Bob Smith asked.
“Just go,” said the old man. “Find out what the hell’s happening.”
“Okay.”
The bruiser checked his pockets on the way out of Valentine’s office. Brass knuckles, sap, the.38 on his belt, and the.44 magnum in his shoulder holster. A British commando knife in his boot. He was traveling light that day.
Smith moved well for a big man, walked easy down the hall, head tilted, listening for approaching footfalls.
