Wrong Place, Wrong Time_A Rafferty P.I. Mystery by W. Glenn Duncan

Author:W. Glenn Duncan [Duncan, W. Glenn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780648037071
Amazon: 064803707X
Publisher: d squared publishing
Published: 2017-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

Organizing protection for Thorney was easy. As soon as we arrived at my house, I phoned Cowboy and Mimi. But it was not easy to explain who the opposition was. Or who I thought they were. Or even who they might be.

The only players I could identify were a smarmy pretty boy, a punchy boxer, two gawky teenagers, and a silver-haired, kindly grandfather. I told Cowboy all that on the phone, which was not much fun, because I knew I sounded like a little kid. Hey, there are monsters in my bedroom closet, really and truly.

“We could jest shoot anybody we happen to see,” Cowboy said. “That make you feel any better?”

I said, “You know how complicated these things get at times. Just think of this as one of those times.”

“Hell’s bells, Rafferty.” He pronounced it hay-ell’s bay-ells. For some reason his drawl was thicker on the telephone. “It’s jest that if we knowed who the bad guys are, then we wouldn’t have to hole up nowhere. We could go kick ass instead.”

“Can’t be helped, Cowboy. And I don’t know how long this might take, either. Are you and Mimi available for, oh, say, up to a week?”

“Shore. Mimi’s sister is here, but that ain’t no problem. She’s catchin’ a plane back to Louisville this afternoon, anyway. Airport’s kind of on the way to your place, so it’ll all work out fine.”

“Good. Which sister? Marie?”

“Naw, this is Mimi’s kid sister, Myra. Don’t think you’ve met her. She looks like Mimi, but she’s taller.”

“Oh.” I could have guessed that much; everybody was taller than Mimi. “My place later, then. Oh, and the target is an old man named Thorneycroft. You’ll like him.”

“That don’t matter,” Cowboy said. “If you want him to stay alive, he stays alive whether we like him or not.”

How’s that for guaranteeing your work?

Thorney and I roamed around my house, not doing anything in particular, getting in each other’s way while we didn’t do it. At that time I was renting a small cottage on Palm Lane, out by the Dr Pepper plant. There wasn’t much room in the little house, certainly not room enough for two large men with time to kill.

While I was busy doing nothing, I found a note I’d written to myself the night before. It was a list of Ortega case things to do. I had to find out if Diego had earned his fifty bucks and I had to work through the customer list and I had to see what Ricco had learned about John “from next door” Barcola and—

“Hmmph,” Thorney snorted. “Of all the …”

He had turned on the TV in the middle of a newscast. They were running a Middle East film story. A group of men in civilian clothes cavorted around a dusty street, celebrating something by firing AK-47s into the air. They were firing long, long bursts, twenty rounds or more. It was definitely amateur night at the war; they must have burned out a dozen gun barrels while we watched.

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