Some People Die Quick (Book 2 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) by JC Simmons

Author:JC Simmons [Simmons, JC]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nighttime Press LLC
Published: 2014-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Guy left around midnight. Lying on the portside bunk, I stared at the light slanting in through the porthole above my head. The night noises around the marina were muffled, lonesome sounds, no laughter, no tinkle of glass, and no shared intimacy. The wind was calm, shrouds were not banging against masts, boats were not straining against moorings; sometimes life seems pernicious, an existence one can never win, or ever hope to win.

Someone stepped firmly on Picaroon's deck, and I felt the boat shift ever so lightly. Reaching for the magnum in the ditty bag I was using for a pillow, I sat slowly up.

"Leicester, you aboard?"

Recognizing the voice, I put the pistol back in the bag, and slipped into my pants. Unlocking the hatch, I said, "Come on down, Hebrone."

"I got something you might want to hear."

He slid catlike down the ladder. We shook hands.

Leaning against the chart table, he said, "I saw the lights on earlier."

"Thanks for running Anna out to Cat Island this morning."

He nodded, looked intently at me, said nothing. There was a deadliness about this man. In the dim light filtering through the portholes, his gray hair seemed to shine silver, like a distant moon. The way he was poised, his body reflected a man still able to take care of himself. He had been "in country" during the Vietnam War, but that was a long time ago. We all slow down.

"I would have to dye it."

"What?"

"The hair, I saw you looking. It would have to be blackened to infiltrate again."

"I don’t understand."

"You ever in the military, Leicester?"

"No."

"During my second tour, I lived with the Montagnards. There were six of us. We were trained in infiltration; wore no uniforms, carried no I.D. Did not exist as far as the military was concerned. Word would come down that a certain individual needed removing from a ville. We'd go in during the night, either kill or bring the individual back for interrogation. We've taken people from inside a hooch with a dozen VC lying asleep on the floor."

Hebrone paused, seeming to have made his point. I had no idea what that was supposed to be, but waited, watching. He would tell me in time. He had not moved a muscle since he leaned against the table. His lips did not appear to move when he spoke. His was a bleak school not of teachers, but of lessons, all unspoken, few forgotten; a place of black emotions, chill in their appearance, rigid in their demands.

"Word is around the dock some people would like to see you dead. You're getting in the way of something important."

"I'm a big boy, Hebrone."

Slowly, lips unmoving, he said, "Guy Robbins, he's a straight shooter, treats a man like somebody. You two are pals."

My curiosity for his point had increased to a pitch, now fatigue and resignation were replacing it.

As if sensing my despair, he said, "The one who did the Weem's woman was not a pro. If he was, you'd be dead."

"Pretty obvious.

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