Gunning For Angels (Fallen Angels Book 1) by C. Mack Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

know your wife and if I told her the things you say and how you act…”
    “You mean the burping?”
    “She’d lock you in the cellar and never let you out.”
    “That’s how much you know. We don’t have a cellar,” Sam grinned.
    Mona rolled her eyes, “If there were a real policeman around – I’d be tempted to file a sexual harassment complaint.”
    “ And she’s funny,” Sam smiled.
    Jack got out his wallet, gave Mona cash.
    “Thanks, Jack.” She smiled appreciatively and pocketed the money. Mona held up the edge of her skirt where a single thread hung. “You mind?”
    Jack pulled out his switchblade and, holding it low so no one could see, he deftly sliced off the thread. 
    “Thanks.” Mona smiled at him.
    “You need to learn how to sew,” Jack said.
    “It’s so much more fun to have you do it,” Mona grinned.
    Sam gripped his stomach and burped. 
    Mona flinched, ignoring Sam and smiling at Jack. “Don’t be such a stranger, Jack.”
    From another table, a customer called out, “Excuse me, Miss?”
    Mona hurried away. 
    “You think you can have the file for me by four o’clock?” Jack asked. “I can meet you here. Coffee is on me.”
    “Sure. I got nothing better to do,” Sam said sarcastically. “It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”
    “How’re the kids?” Jack asked, ignoring the comment.
    “Sharon wants to be a private detective like Uncle Jack. Never mind being a flatfoot cop like Pop.”
    “How ‘bout Ernie?”
    Sam makes a wry face, “Ernie’s discovered the exciting new world of – ballet .”
    “Really?” Jack asked, surprised.
    “Really.”
    “Is he good?” Jack asked.
    “Scary good.”
    Jack laughed. Turning to leave, he walked past a surprised Mona and headed into the kitchen where a Hispanic dishwasher stared after him indignantly. Jack slipped out the back door that led into an alley. A Goth girl leaned against a brick wall, smoking. She gave Jack the once over, wrote him off and returned to her cigarette with black lipstick stains.
    Jack enter ed a door that read “Ide Mania.” He found himself in a storage room, his nostrils assailed by the acrid smell of hair chemicals. Jack straightened and walked with confidence into the beauty salon that smelled as pleasantly aromatic as the storage room smelled acrid. Three stylists were busy working on their clients.
    The beautiful owner, Ide Flores, who looked like the Hispanic answer to Rita Hayworth, looked up with a frown as she demanded, “Who are you?”
    Jack held up the to-go bag like it contained a rodent. “Call me if you have any more problems.”
    Jack strode out the front door and into the street. He approached the dark sedan from behind and gave a hard rap on the driver’s window.
    Frank Ficus let out a yelp and gripped his heart. Scowling, he rolled the window down and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, Jack! You tryin’ to kill me?”
    At fifty-eight, Frank Ficus had resigned himself to the extra weight he’d long ago given up trying to lose. His nose showed the signs of early pugilist pursuits and, in his heyday, he’d prided himself on finishing any fight that someone else was daft enough to start. With every passing year, he moved slower but still packed a brick pile of a punch.
    Jack held out the to-go bag that held a cheeseburger. “Well done. The way you like it.”
    Frank eyed it suspiciously.
    Jack waved it closer to him so he could smell it.
    Frank snatched the bag and suspiciously examined its contents.
    “Who hired you to follow me, Franko?” Jack asked.
    “I’m not one of your cheap dates who’s going to blow you for a burger.”
    Jack opened his mouth with a slur against Frank’s sister but remembered his sister died of breast cancer. It was more fun doing the sister insults when they were younger – before they all got married, fat or dead. “Tell Petunia’s husband that he can stop spending his paycheck on detectives. It’s over between me and her.” 
    Frank’s