Rule Number Four by Dave Bruns

Author:Dave Bruns
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2024-06-18T11:37:05+00:00

Fourteen

Sunday, July 26

Travis McGee was pushing Walter Demos hard with threats of torture and vague references to bodies found at the bottom of the apartment’s swimming pool. And then, when Demos denied being the source of the poisoned drugs, came the sudden violence, a knife-edge hand smashing into Demos’s ulnar nerve, rendering his arm useless. The confession followed. Demos knew McGee meant business and his drug smuggling days were coming to an end.

Tico applauded McGee’s methods, the understated approach escalating to threats, then force. He understood the irony of his rooting for McGee to overcome the drug smugglers, but he hadn’t reached page 127 without being absorbed into the antihero appeal of the “salvage consultant.” What didn’t appeal was the sound of the bar’s front door opening. Again. Am I cursed? Is this book cursed? Why, why, why can’t I read more than ten pages without interruption?

Tico was not a particularly religious man despite growing up in a devout family in a country where Catholicism ruled. He had seen too much, done too much to believe that some higher power poured down benevolence on His subjects. Nevertheless, he tried to adhere to the notion of Sunday being a day of rest. His Sunday brunch was famous in Malagua, or, more accurately, infamous—a platter of runny scrambled eggs, a foil container of undercooked potatoes and another of some sort of meat that vaguely resembled bacon, all sharing the warmth of a single weak heat lamp. It had been a while since Tico had more than one customer for brunch. On paper, it was one of his biggest days as 250–300 orders were written up each and every Sunday. The eggs, however, were purely for show should some IRS agent get lost and stop by for brunch on his way to El Paso. The customers came disguised as empty seats and Tico laundered nearly $150,000 a year while his Sunday mornings were spent peacefully following the fictional exploits of McGee or Filiberto Garcia.

Again today Tico had only the one expected customer, who was seated at the table nearest the kitchen and digging into a perfect, fluffy cheese omelet stuffed with onion, peppers and sausage ground by Tico himself. A Sunday without Carl was a rare event. He had arrived at eight, looking much worse for the wear and walking stiffly. A baseball cap pulled low on his head couldn’t hide the swelling just above his neck. But there he was, and Tico never asked questions. He just had his single cook put together the omelet and resumed devouring The Dreadful Lemon Sky.

But now the door was opening. A tourist who hadn’t received the message to avoid Tico’s brunch? The mythical IRS agent in the flesh? Someone from his past who had found him in this rural backwater? He set the book down, careful to mark the page and not damage the spine, and moved to the kitchen door, peering through one of its round windows. His left hand was flat against the

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.