The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning Read Free Book Online

and spread it
     over his seatcovers. By the time he was ready to open the
     door, I was drenched.
    I pushed the blanket roughly out of the way and flopped
     down on the backseat.
    “Hey, cowboy,” Pruitt said, “are you
     trying to piss me off?”
    The woman giggled and we all looked at each other.
     Pruitt was an ugly pockmarked man. His face had been badly
     pitted long ago, the way you used to see on smallpox
     victims, and it gave him a look of rank decay. He smelled
     of cedarwood aftershave and peppermint, which on him had a
     faintly sickening effect.
    He was in his late forties: his girlfriend was younger,
     a brassy-looking blonde. But it was Pruitt who commanded
     the attention. His coat was open so I could see the gun he
     wore. He was an intimidator, I knew the type well, it had
     crossed my path often enough when I was a cop in Denver.
     Give him an inch and he’ll walk all over you.
     He’ll bully and embarrass you and make life
     miserable. I never give guys like him an inch, not even
     when I could see, like now, the eyes of a killer.
    “Where the hell did Slater dig you up?” he
     said.
    “He used to date my mother. I hear he found you
     the same way.”
    The blonde gave a small gasp: one didn’t, I was
     supposed to believe, talk to the man in that tone of voice.
     Pruitt’s eyes burned holes in my head.
     “We’ve got a real smart-ass here, Olga. Ten
     thousand guys in Denver and Slater sends me a
     smart-ass.”
    “Tell you what,” I said evenly.
     “Let’s start over. I’ll go back to my
     hotel and dry out, -have a drink, get a good dinner, maybe
     find myself a friend of the opposite sex to help me pass
     the time. You sit here in the rain, follow Slater’s
     girl, and call me when you want to pass the torch. How does
     two weeks from tomorrow sound?”
    “A real smart-ass. You’re getting water all
     over my car, for Christ’s sake, didn’t your
     fucking mother teach you anything? Where were you raised,
     in a back alley behind some Denver whorehouse?”
    “As a matter of fact, yeah. I seem to’ve
     missed all the advantages Mrs. Hitler gave you.”
    He burned me with his killer eyes. The blonde seemed to
     be holding her breath, waiting for him to crawl over the
     seat and kill me.
    “Just for the record,” I said pleasantly,
     “I’m about this close to pushing what’s
     left of your face right through that windshield. Do we
     understand each other yet, Gertrude?…or do I have to
     take that gun away from you and empty it up your
     ass?”
    We sat and stared. I was ready for him if he came, and I
     thought he might. The rage simmered in the car and fogged
     up the windshield. In the end, he had a higher priority
     than teaching a cowboy from Denver who was boss.
    “You want to tell me about this woman?” I
     said.
    “You’ve got her picture. She’s in
     there, it’s your job now.”
    “I’ll tell you when it’s my job. If I
     have any more trouble with you, I’m out of here, and
     you and Slater can figure it out by yourselves.”
    “Shit.”
    I couldn’t improve on that, so I let it ride. We
     sat in the car for a few minutes without talking. “Go
     inside,” he said to Olga as if I weren’t there.
     “See if our pigeon’s getting lonely.” She
     got out and ran through the rain, disappearing into the
     bar. Pruitt sat in silence, his collar turned up to his
     ears, his eyes riveted on the neon lights in the window. He
     lit a cigarette but put it out without comment when I
     cracked the window and the rain came in on his seats.
    “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
     He got out in the rain and walked to the bar. I trailed
     along behind him. He tapped the hood of an old roadster
     parked at the front door—Rigby’s, I was left to
     conclude. It was a true jalopy, with current Washington
     plates and bad tires. We went inside. Pruitt didn’t
     want to go past the dark aisle that led into the barroom.
     We stood there a moment in the pitch,