The Barbed-Wire Kiss by Wallace Stroby Read Free Book Online

bartender looked at Harry, raised an eyebrow.
    “You deaf or something?” Wiley said. Harry felt him come up close behind him. “I’m talking to you.”
    A hand closed lightly on his right arm, just above the elbow. He shook it off, half turned, raised his hand.
    “Don’t.”
    He turned back to the bar.
    “Tough guy, huh?” Wiley said. He caught the arm again and Harry waited until he felt the tug, then went with it, swiveled, slipped free and off the stool. Wiley fell back a step, then came in fast, reaching for Harry with his left hand, the right already balled into a fist.
    Harry drove a boot heel into Wiley’s right knee. It stopped him, bent him in pain, and Harry stepped in close, caught the lapels of his jacket and twisted his torso to break his balance. His right leg swung out and back, caught Wiley behind the knees, and knocked both feet out from under him. Still holding on to the lapels, he turned him in midair, heard cloth rip, then brought him down hard onto the floor with a crash that shook the bottles behind the bar.
    He dropped his left knee into Wiley’s stomach, drove the breath out of him. Wiley clawed at the holster and Harry slapped his hand away, got the gun out. It was a small, silver automatic with rubber grips. He pushed the muzzle into Wiley’s throat, his finger on the trigger.
    Wiley froze. The room was silent except for the distant sound of the tennis game.
    “Easy,” the bartender said.
    Harry tried to slow his breathing. The room seemed to swim in and out of focus around him. He felt a drop of sweat roll down the side of his face.
    “Lie there,” he said. “Don’t move.”
    He moved the gun away, used his free hand to pat Wiley down for another weapon, didn’t find one. With his knee still in Wiley’s stomach, he looked at the gun. It was a Star 9, made in Spain, a street gun. He ejected the clip, worked the slide. A shiny brass shell sprang from the breech, clattered on the floor, and rolled away beneath a table.
    Wiley looked up at him, not moving. Harry got to his feet, stuck the clip in the back pocket of his jeans. The bartender was watching him.
    “Sorry about all this,” Harry said to him. The stool had fallen over during their struggle. He righted it, his breathing under control now. He looked down at Wiley.
    “Stay there,” he said. “Don’t follow me, or I’ll put you down again.”
    He went back out onto the porch. Fallon was still on the phone. He watched as Harry approached.
    Harry set the gun on the tabletop.
    “Listen,” Fallon said into the phone, “we’ll go over this later. I’ve got a situation here.” Harry could hear a tinny voice protest on the other end of the line. “I said later. I’ll call you back.” He folded the phone shut.
    “Where’s Lester?”
    “In there. He fell.”
    “He pull that on you?”
    “He tried to.”
    Fallon shook his head.
    “That fucking guy. Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
    As Fallon got up, he glanced toward the bar entrance. Harry turned to see Wiley limp out onto the porch, still breathing heavily, his face red. Harry gripped the back of the wrought-iron chair, got ready to lift it.
    Fallon looked at Wiley, shook his head.
    “Go back inside,” he said. “Wait for me there.”
    “But Eddie—”
    “Go back inside.”
    Wiley looked at Harry, the anger bright in his eyes. He turned and went back into the bar.
    “Let’s go,” Fallon said.
    Harry pushed the gun into a pocket. He followed Fallon down the steps and toward the pasture.
    “I got your message this morning,” Fallon said. “I told them at the restaurant to go ahead and let you know where I was. I wouldn’t normally do that.”
    “I know that. I appreciate this.”
    “Good.” Fallon went to the rail, put his elbows up. “So let’s hear it.”
    “Bobby Fox.” Harry waited for a reaction, got none. “He’s a friend of mine. He had some bad luck and he wants to straighten things out.”
    Fallon nodded, looked off toward the barn.