1978 - Consider Yourself Dead by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

picking up a grand.’
    ‘And an easy way of losing it,’ Frost said cautiously. ‘What age guy is he?’
    ‘He’s an oldie . . . around fifty, and he has only one eye.’
    ‘Fifty and one eye?’ Frost grinned. ‘Sure, I’ll take him on.’
    ‘Here’s what we do, Mike. We wouldn’t want you to lose a grand. You’ll be doing us a favour by taking him on. You beat him and the grand is yours. He beats you and we pick up the tab . . . what do you say?’
    Frost grinned again.
    ‘What have I to lose?’
    ‘Let’s go down to the range. He’ll be there right now.’
    They found Lu Silk in the well-equipped basement shooting range, talking to Moses, the coloured attendant, who kept the range clean, changed the targets and acted as scorer when there was a shooting match on. There were no other sportsmen. Silk had had the range closed to other clients. He wanted Frost on his own.
    Umney made introductions, and Silk offered what seemed a flabby hand which Frost shook.
    Among Silk’s many talents was the ability to convey the impression that he was a little feeble, and edging into premature senility. Frost regarded him searchingly, and was completely taken in by Silk’s act. He decided this was going to be a pushover, and, he began to wonder what he would do with the thousand dollars he was going to pick up.
    Umney was saying, ‘Mike’s a good shot, Mr. Silk. He would like a match.’
    Silk nodded, then looking at Frost, he said, ‘Have you got a thousand, sonny? I don’t take on a match with a piker.’
    Frost bristled.
    ‘Are you calling me a piker?’ he snarled, his face flushing.
    Silk appeared to shrink a little.
    ‘Forget it . . . just so long as you have the money.’
    ‘I’ve got the money,’ Frost snapped, ‘and another thing . . . don’t call me ‘sonny’, or I’ll start calling you grandpa . . . right?’
    Umney said hastily, ‘Now, gentlemen . . .’
    Silk retreated a step.
    ‘Sure . . . sure, Mr. Frost. Forget it . . . suppose we start shooting?’
    Moses came over with a long leather case containing six .38 police specials.
    ‘Take your pick, Mr. Frost,’ Silk said. ‘I have my own gun.’
    Frost took his time. He examined each of the six guns.
    Finally he selected one of them that sat well in his hand.
    Moses ambled down the range and set up two targets.
    ‘We toss for the first shot . . . best out of five,’ Silk said, and promptly won the toss. This suited Frost. He wanted to judge just how good this one eyed fink thought he was.
    Silk took up his position. Watching, Frost decided he had an old-fashioned stance. His feet were spread wide and he extended his shooting arm, the gun pointing like a finger. His left hand hung by his side. Strictly for the birds, Frost thought.
    The gun exploded into sound.
    Moses peered, then pressing a button signalled ‘Outer 25.’
    Silk muttered under his breath and then stepped aside. Grinning, Frost swung up his gun, holding it in both hands, right leg forward, a perfect balance. He fired.
    Moses signalled ‘Inner 50.’
    Should have been a bull, Frost thought. The gun throws to the left.
    Silk fired.
    ‘Inner 50.’
    Frost aimed a trifle to the right.
    ‘Bull 100.’
    They shot three more times. Silk failed to score a bull.
    Frost scored a bull, an outer and an inner.
    Moses computed the scores. Frost 340. Silk 225.
    His hatchet face expressionless, Silk took out his wallet and produced two five hundred dollar bills.
    ‘You’re quite a shot, Mr. Frost,’ he said, then as he was about to give the bills to Frost, he paused. ‘Suppose we try again? Five thousand evens. Give us both an incentive, huh?’
    Frost hesitated.
    Silk went on, ‘I’m getting to be an old man. I need a leak. I’ll be right back,’ and he walked away to the toilets.
    Frost grinned. This was taking a dummy out of a baby’s mouth. Now he had the feel of the gun, he was sure there would be no problem.
    Umney said, ‘Don’t risk it, Mike. You’ve won your grand.