Fistful Of Rain (Ty Dawson Mysteries) by Baron R. Birtcher

Author:Baron R. Birtcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781579625566
Publisher: Permanent Press
Published: 2018-06-05T12:00:00+00:00

THE LIGHT over the transom was flickering again and I made a note to myself to bring a ladder out on Monday so I could climb up and replace it. I made one last pass through the substation, turned out the lights, and left through the back door. There was one more stop I needed to make before I could go home and put this goddamned day behind me.

I left my truck parked in the back lot and walked through the elongated shadows and night noises of grackles and finches settling inside the limbs of alder trees that lined the empty street, testing the door locks on the darkened shops as I went along. I pushed through the door of the Cottonwood Blossom, and took my place at one of the stools along the bar. A thin layer of smoke floated beneath the rafters, and Dolly Parton was singing “Jolene” on the jukebox. It was still a bit early for the Friday night crowd, only a handful of tourists eating burgers and fries in a booth at the corner, and a swing band setting up on the stage beside the dance floor.

Lankard Downing looked as choleric and consumptive as he always did, wearing his usual unironed cotton shirt and black trousers with a white apron tied around his waist. He was reading the newspaper and smoking a cigarette, leaning on one elbow along the back bar.

“You on the clock?” Lankard asked as he stubbed out his smoke. “You still got your badge and your gun on.”

I don’t wear a uniform, but I do keep my badge clipped to a tooled leather gun belt with brass cartridges tucked into the loops. My three-quarter jacket had snagged on the butt of my Colt Trooper, exposing the whole rig, and I saw Downing’s gaze slide over the room.

“Ain’t great for business,” he said. “You saddling up at the bar with your weaponry hanging there in front of God and everybody.”

I unclipped the badge from my belt and adjusted the hang of my coat to conceal my revolver.

“Oly draft?” Downing asked without waiting for my answer.

The mug he handed me smelled like a goldfish bowl, but I sipped at the cold beer anyway.

“I hear they’re gonna try and recall you,” he said.

“That made it into the paper already?”

“Oh, hell no. I only read that rag for the classified ads.”

“I want to talk to you about last night.”

I pulled the Xerox copy of the mugshots from my pocket and slid it across the bar top toward Downing.

“You seen these guys in here, Lankard?”

He glanced at it and slid it right back.

“Yesterday. They were sitting over there at the Pong table making a racket,” he said. “Giggling like little girls.”

“What time was this?”

“Early. Ten, or ten thirty, probably. They left not too long afterward.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

He shook his head.

“No, but they sure as hell weren’t working out quantum equations.”

“When did you close for the night?”

“I called you a little bit after two A.

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