Whip Hand by W. Franklin Sanders

Author:W. Franklin Sanders
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Tags: マイコンテンツ
Published: 2011-01-27T05:05:19.835000+00:00

13

Bill Brown

IT was gay on the Midway.

A poor man's Santa Monica—everything except ocean and cool breezes. The roar of the damned Twirly Whip magnified the pain in my head while I watched the stupid people passing by.

These Dallasites worked at being a cosmopolitan clan. The women were all fully dressed, lots of them with hats and gloves. I thought of the sensible shorts and halter of the California female bent on recreation.

Sweat. Running down my face, down my back. Gradually saturating the twigs in the tweed of my pants. Under my shirt the gun was sticky against my stomach. The tweed jacket lolled heavily across my arm like a passed-out drunk. I was sick of waiting, but I couldn't think what I'd do if the other kidnappers did show. This wasn't the best place to start fireworks.

I gave the fat man beside me a hard time.

“Pop, what makes your nose so big and ugly?”

“You hadn't ought to josh me about my nose, Mister. Not after what you done to it. It's hurting me, something awful.”

“If your partners don't show in about five minutes, it'll hurt you a lot more.”

“Now wait a minute, mister. It ain't my fault if they ain't here in five minutes! Junior said he'd come and he will, all right. But he never said what time.”

“I said. Five minutes—then nose, look out.”

It worried him. Well, I felt like passing some of it along. Brown, you're a mean man. I tried to shift the pain around, rubbing hard on my temples.

Then a kid coming toward us was giving me a close inspection. In one hand he carried an expensive hand-tooled bag, and in the other a foot-long hot dog was dripping mustard into his sleeve. From his interest in me and the way Fatso stiffened beside me, I pegged him for one of the pair I was gunning down.

If my guess was right I could go farther and picture his leather bag being lined with folding stuff. Except that his eyes were shifty, he looked like anything but a criminal. He seemed a bit under the weather. His face was pasty white with sprinkled paprika cheeks, and his eyes were two blood-covered lemon drops. Perhaps his financial success had led to a recent celebration.

A couple of witty questions on my part established he wasn't Junior, the ringleader. So this was Donald. The sore-nosed farmer tried to get Donald to rat on his brother. The kid cracked wise and I mashed the hot dog into his face. It made a bit of a mess. It also loosened his tongue and he offered to lead me to Junior. I made them go in front and I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance.

They crossed the Midway, and a strip of lawn to the next street, and turned left. There was only one lighted area in the direction they were leading me. I had little or no intention of being decoyed beyond that light and silhouetting my bulk against it to furnish Junior with target practice.

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