'Fats,' I called out.
Nothing.
'Fats.' Again, louder.
Nothing. I pulled my nine millimeter from the pocket of my windbreaker. I pumped a round into the chamber, and held the pistol down by my leg, pointing to die floor.
I noticed a partially open door across the barroom. It led to another room, perhaps a storeroom or a bathroom. I couldn't be sure. The interior was pitch dark.
I eased toward the door, my pistol in front of me, held in a twohanded grip. I pushed the door all the way open with the barrel of the weapon. I reached in with my left hand, fumbling along the wall next to the door, trying to find a light switch. My hand closed on a plastic cover with a round knob, like the controls of a rheostat. I pushed the knob in, and light flooded the small room.
I was standing in a dusty vestibule, with stairs leading upward. There were cases of whiskey stacked around the little room and under the stairs. The space was unpainted, and dust covered the boxes of booze.
I saw a door at the head of the stairs and started climbing, slowly. Light was seeping from around the door, casting a faint glow on die area. I stayed to die edge of the steps, hoping not to cause one to creak and give me away. I pointed my gun upward. I wasn't sure why I was being so careful, but it seemed like a good idea.
I reached the door and slowly turned the knob. It wasn't locked and I carefully opened it. Light poured through the crack between the door and the jamb. As the opening widened, more sunlight splashed out.
I swung the door all the way open and at the same time stepped back down a couple of steps, crouching. I wanted to make as small a target as possible.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
I stood and moved into the room, gun pointing forward. No one was there. It wasn't much of a room. A single bed was positioned under the window across from the doorway in which I stood. This was the source of the sunlight that flowed into the room. The bed was unmade, die sheets tangled, a pillow on the floor. An overstuffed chair was positioned at the foot of the bed, a reading lamp next to it. The walls were an institutional gray, the paint peeling in spots. I could see a brown blotch on the ceiling where the roof had leaked. On the wall across from the bed, someone had built a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It was filled with books. A quick glance told me that the reader's interest ran to history and biography. A closed door bisected the wall to my right.
'Fats,' I called again.
The door opened, and a naked man stood there, shaving cream covering his face, a safety razor in his hand, a startled look on his face, dissolving quickly into fear.
'What the fuck?' said the naked man. It was Fats.
I angled the gun toward the floor. 'Sorry,' I said. 'I didn't mean to startle you.'
'Startle? You scared the ever-living shit out of me, Counselor. What the hell are you doing?'
'The door downstairs is open and nobody was in the bar. I wasn't sure what I was going to find. Sorry.'
'That door should be locked. You sure it's open?'
'Wide open.'
'What are you doing here?'
'You said you wanted to see me.'
'I never said that.'
'Didn't you call Cracker Dix and tell him you wanted to see me about Wayne Lee?'
'No. Why would I?'
He reached into the bathroom and grabbed a towel, wiped his face and then put it around his considerable girth.
'About his murder,' I said.
'Wayne's murder?'
'Yes. Last night.'
'Damn.'
Fats moved to the chair and sat down heavily. He put his hands to his face, almost prayerfully. 'What happened?'
'He was shot in the chest. Over near where he lives. That's all I know.'
'Shit. Poor guy. He never hurt nobody.'
I had moved into the room, keeping an eye on the door leading to the stairs. Somebody had called Cracker and told him to get me here. Why? Why was the door downstairs open? Was somebody else in the building?
Then I heard it. A step creaking. I turned to Fats, putting a finger to my lips, the universal signal for quiet. I raised my pistol, sighting on the open door to the stairs. Another creak, and then the door was thrown all the way back, bouncing against the wall.
A big man pushed into the room. He was about six feet tall, but he must've weighed three hundred pounds. I didn't think any of it was fat. He wore a black ski mask, and he had a shotgun in his hands, leveled at me. I saw his eyes squint in anticipation of the shot. His finger was pulling back on the trigger, whitening under the pressure. His lips, visible through the mouth hole of the mask, were beginning to part in a grin, or a grimace.
I shot him in the face. He went over backward, the shotgun discharging into the ceiling. I rushed the body, ready to pump another round into him. It wasn't necessary. His eyes were open just above the entry wound to the right of his nose. Some air escaped through his open mouth, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat. The death rattle.
I positioned myself beside the doorway, waiting to see who else was coming up the stairs. Fats was sitting in the chair, a yellow stain spreading across the white towel draped over his lap. I didn't blame him. That shotgun scared the piss out of me too. His breathing was irregular, his eyes wide in fright.
Feet pounded the floor of the room below. It sounded like one man running. The front door slammed, and a moment later tires careened over the shell parking lot. A car coming off the street, fast. A door slammed, and the vehicle screeched out of the parking lot, its tires loudly grabbing the pavement.
I ran to the window over the bed and looked out. A green sedan was on Cortez Road heading east. It was too far away for me to see its license plate or to even determine the make of car. It was gone.
I turned to Fats. 'You okay?'
'Not really. What the hell's going on?'
'I don't know, but somebody got me over here to kill me. Looks like they wanted to kill you too.'
I took out my cell phone and called Logan. I told him where I was and what had happened. 'Stay inside,' I said. 'If they came for me, they may come for you too. Call Bill Lester and tell him what's going on. I'm calling 911.'
After I told the emergency operator where I was and why I needed the police, I turned to Fats. He was still breathing hard, but he'd gotten himself cleaned up and put on a pair of shorts.
'Why would somebody want to kill you?' I asked.
'Don't know'
'Look, Fats. Somebody's out to get me and probably you as well. Once the cops get here they're going to separate us and you're not going to be able to tell me what's going on. Do it now, and maybe I can figure out how to save our asses. Does this have something to do with Jake Yardley?'
'Probably. There's a lot I can't tell you, Mr. Royal, but I'll tell you what I can.'
'Call me Matt.'
'Okay, Matt. I knew Clyde Varn from way back. I recognized him right away, the first time he came in here. He said his name was Jake Yardley, but I knew better.'
'Where did you know him from?'
'Down in the Keys, and later, Miami.'
'How did you know him?'
'We worked for the same outfit.'
'Come on, Fats. We don't have all day. Spell it out.'
'We worked for Javier Savanorola. He was in the drug business. Clyde was hired muscle. I handled the books and kept the IRS offJavier's back.
'The feds came down on us hard six or seven years ago. Clyde and I both testified for the government. He disappeared, and I figured Javier had him killed. I left town, changed my name, and bought this place.'
