The Samaritan's Pistol by Eric Bishop

Author:Eric Bishop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jolly Fish Press
Published: 2014-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

33

Leaning on the apartment doorway, Larry watched them drive away with Sheila like a teenager in the shotgun seat.

Sheila camping? Larry’s belly bounced at the thought.

Through ten years of friendship, he’d watched Sheila pick her marks. Usually middle-aged, rich types with enough ego to believe a gorgeous young lady would still want yesterday’s news. She’d pluck them from the verge of Viagra. They’d wine and dine her, lavish her with gifts in exchange for hearing how their gray hair was distinguished and their pot bellies success symbols.

It usually took less than two weeks before she had enough new jewelry to take to an appraiser, who already had buyers lined up for the Cartier or Tiffany pieces.

Then, if needed, she’d slip Larry a percentage to pose as her partner. Somehow, the swinging-dick middle-aged Charlie Sheens lost their mojo when they saw him at her apartment.

The way she treated Jim had been different. Beer from the fridge and Sheila as host was hysterical. She didn’t even like beer; and if Jim were her next victim, he’d have been on his way to buy her eighteen-dollar cocktails served by pretty boy bartenders behind the velvet rope at the Foundation Room or Studio 54. The camping thing and the dented old truck clinched it; she’d never get into anything but a European sedan to go anywhere, unless she thought the driver was the full on total shit.

He swirled the half full beer to a head, pressed it to his lips, and took a swallow, then shook his head.

Larry Lyons the matchmaker.

He hadn’t seen it coming, would’ve bet against it, and might’ve even mistakenly warned Jim off.

I still owe you Mr. Marlboro Man, bullets-flyin’, git’r done cowboy. But the gap is closing.

Chris returned from his five-mile evening run as the couple got into Jim’s truck. Even from fifty feet away, her body language fairly screamed the attraction. Her fingertips lingered on his forearm as he opened the door. A sharp pain in Chris’s belly doubled him over, stealing his breath and forcing him to sit on the warm sidewalk. After a few minutes, Chris stood and walked to Larry, who was leaning against the open doorway.

“Where did those two go?”

“How’s the run?” Larry responded, his tone nonchalant.

“I asked a question.”

“In my line of business, when a man and a woman go off together, the less I know the better.”

“This is different. Where did they go?”

Larry didn’t respond to Chris’s agitation, taking his time he swirled the beer to a head again before drinking the last of it. Then he turned his head away and covered his mouth to burp.

“I think they wanted to be alone.”

“Do you even know where they went?”

“They’re camping by Lake Mead.”

“Camping?” Chris’s sounded like someone just told him money wasn’t green.

“Chill,” Larry responded, still leaning against the doorway. “Jim wants to move the money to his ranch during the funeral.”

Chris stared at Larry. “Chill? With millions in a truck ten miles from here! What if they take it and run?”

“She doesn’t like you, Chris.

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