Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

fancy?”
    â€œHamburger. Twenty minutes?”
    â€œSee you there.”

Seven
    The Pink Bicycle is renowned for its great selection of mini sliders, but I haven’t known Pinch long enough to be sure of how sensitive he is to the vertically challenged aspect of his stature. I mean, he’s not that short. And as a girl whose Barbies preferred my neighbor’s G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip over the leaner and more emasculated Ken doll, I’ve always found shorter men to be more appealing.
    Erring on the side of caution, however, I assume it’s never smart to insult a hired killer— even unintentionally.
    â€œWhat do you recommend?” he asks, looking up from the menu.
    â€œThere are no wrong choices here. It’s all good.”
    â€œWhat about the sliders?”
    I grin, relieved at the opening. “Fantastic. We could share the variety platter of six with yam fries on the side.”
    â€œAnd a salad?”
    â€œIf you need the roughage, sure.”
    Pinch’s eyes dance with amusement although his lips barely twinge. He closes the menu. “So what’s the ulterior motive?” he asks.
    â€œDoes there need to be one?”
    â€œNo, but there is.”
    The waitress arrives and we order. After she leaves, I lean across the table. My bust is so small that my shirt barely puckers. Disappointedly, his eyes don’t even attempt a sneaky peek.
    â€œYou ever heard of the Red Swan?”
    Pinch doesn’t blink, but neither does he answer.
    â€œKrasnyi Lebed,” I continue. “He’s—”
    â€œI know who he is,” Pinch interrupts.
    â€œI want to meet him.”
    â€œBad idea.”
    â€œIt’s for a story I’m—”
    â€œStill a bad idea.”
    â€œHe’s a news junkie. He’ll like me.”
    â€œHe might, but it’s better to be off his radar than on.”
    I lean back again. “You ever work for him?”
    â€œNo comment.”
    I narrow my eyes and shake my head. “No, you haven’t, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t be living here.”
    Pinch tilts his head to one side, a move that neither confirms nor denies my claim.
    â€œPeople in your profession don’t retire,” I continue. “You disappear someplace where people don’t know you. You picked San Francisco because you did most of your work on the East Coast. Am I close?”
    â€œNo comment.”
    I lean forward again. “I’m not expecting you to give me an introduction; I just need to know how I go about meeting him. Your name will never leave my lips. I hope that I’ve proven that to you.”
    Pinch nods. “You have.”
    â€œSo will you help me?”
    The waitress returns with our platter of assorted mini burgers and lays it on the table. A basket of crispy yam fries, chipotle mayo dip, and a carafe of ice water quickly join it. After she leaves, Pinch tucks his napkin under his chin and picks up the first burger: Angus beef with aged white cheddar.
    I don’t tell him the napkin makes him look darn cute.
    â€œWe’ll talk after we eat,” he says.
    I agree and dive in.

    I’m lifting my second slider—a teriyaki and green onion pork patty with pineapple—to my lips when a businessman in a bold pinstriped suit collides with our table and his elbow smacks my hand.
    Like something out of a Max Payne video game, time slows. The burger leaves my hand, the top half of the bun accelerating faster than the bottom. In the same instant, the carafe of water is blasting off at an angle that would make NASA hit the self-destruct button.
    I push my chair back in an attempt to avoid the worst of it, but out of the corner of my eye I see Pinch moving forward, his hands imperceptibly faster than the unfolding disaster. While his left hand plucks the glass carafe out of the air and lands it upright with barely a splash, his right hand intercepts the catapulted burger and slams it