A Knife in the Heart. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ Probably a southpaw, Fallon figured, but the Smith & Wesson must not be his preferred weapon, for he held an iron rod and kept tapping one end against a calloused right palm.

      The welcoming committee, Fallon thought.

      “Do I know you?” Fallon asked the weasel.

      The weasel’s grin revealed several missing teeth and more that a dentist would consider a lost cause.

      “Name’s Jenkins,” the weasel said. “Buster Jenkins.”

      Fallon’s mind searched, but came up empty.

      “Sorry, Buster. I don’t recall the privilege of meeting you.”

      “Choctaw Nation. You arrested me.” His left hand rose slowly, carefully, and the pointer finger traced a thin scar from the part in his hair to the center of his forehead.

      He didn’t look that old, Fallon thought, but it was hard to figure out the age of a man as dirty as this one.

      “I arrested a lot of men,” Fallon said. “But, congratulations. You’re out of jail. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

      “Buster,” the waitress called out. “I don’t want y’all wreckin’ dis place. Y’all take yer business outside.”

      The men did not move.

      “What’s going on, Papa?” Rachel Renee asked.

      “Christina,” Fallon said tightly, “go on home. I’ll see you in a bit.”

      “You sure?” his wife said.

      “Yeah.” He had sized up the men. He would not need Christina’s assistance with these three, and he didn’t want his baby girl to see her papa at this kind of work. Fallon nodded at the weasel. “If you’ll step aside, let my family go home. They have a lot of unpacking to do.”

      “They might wanna pack up,” the burly man said, causing the thin one with the pipe to snigger.

      But they did step aside, though the weasel warned Christina, “Don’t go after no law dog. Just go straight home.”

      “I thought we were gonna see the town,” Rachel Renee said. Christina scooped up the girl.

      “We are,” Fallon said. “After I finish my business with these . . . gentlemen. I’ll be home in a jiffy.”

      “In a box,” the weasel whispered with a malevolent grin as they stepped aside to let Fallon’s wife and child leave the restaurant. The one with the pipe turned sideways to watch through the window as Christina and Renee moved down the sidewalk.

      “Where they headin’?” the weasel asked.

      “West,” the thin one said.

      “Might find a law dog down,” the big brute said.

      “This shouldn’t take long,” the weasel said.

      “I’m gonna call de police,” the waitress bellowed, “if ya don’t take dis outside.”

      Fallon realized that the restaurant was empty of paying customers. The cook stepped out of the kitchen. Fallon could see him through the reflection in one of the windows with the shades partially drawn to keep out the sun. His eyes turned briefly, but this side of the street wasn’t crowded. No one passed by, and Fallon realized how late they were getting out of the house. The dinner rush was long over. Not a peace officer to be found anywhere.

      “Would you three like to take this matter outside?” Fallon asked, trying to sound respectful, or at least, courteous.

      “Nah,” the weasel said. “A copper would likely interrupt our getting-reacquainted party.”

      “I see.” Fallon’s mind began racing. “So . . . Buster Jenkins. Remind me of how we met.”

      “Choctaw Nation. I was runnin’ whiskey.”

      Fallon’s head bobbed. “A popular diversion.”

      “Yeah. So was eighteen months in Detroit.”

      “Well, you’ve been out for some time. I haven’t been a deputy marshal in Fort Smith for years and years.”

      “We know,” the weasel said. “You was a big-time law dog in Wyoming. Now you’s gonna be runnin’ a prison. The big one here in town.”

      Fallon nodded. It struck him that Buster Jenkins was not aware of what had happened to Fallon some time after Jenkins had been sent to the Detroit House of Corrections. That Fallon had spent ten years in Joliet. That Fallon had then worked as an operative in three other prisons. He figured Buster Jenkins did not even know about the gunfight Fallon had been in the middle of during the bank robbery a few weeks back.

      “Been readin’ ’bout you,” Jenkins said.

      “I didn’t know you could read,” Fallon said. “Did they teach you that in Detroit?”

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      The expression on Buster Jenkins’s face was exactly what Fallon was hoping for. So was the laughter from the big brute. That’s why Fallon threw the first punch into the jaw of the thin man with the iron bar.

      That was the most dangerous man, Fallon estimated, and the one that needed to be dispatched first.

      The blow sent the man turning, dropping the piece of iron on the floor, and bending over while spitting out teeth and blood. Fallon kicked him hard in the buttocks, catapulting him through the plate-glass window. Shards of glass showered the floor inside and the boardwalk outside as the man disappeared from view.

      “What the hell—” was all the weasel could say before Fallon whirled, swinging a haymaker with his left that caught the side of the weasel’s face and powered him over an empty table and crashing into two chairs. Body and furniture rolled over the floor.

      Fallon backed up quickly, avoiding the rushed swing from the burly man, who glanced at Buster Jenkins as he tried to push himself off the floor, only to bump his head against another table. He roared in pain, in frustration, and kept rising, overturning the second table—and that one had not been cleared of its plates and glasses, which crashed into hundreds of pieces on the floor.

      By then Fallon had picked up the iron bar the skinny one had dropped on his way through the broken window. Fallon shot a quick glance. That man had not emerged, but Fallon knew he would need to keep an eye out for him, for that one carried a holstered revolver—and Fallon figured he knew how to use it. Buster Jenkins also had a gun, but he was so mad, so shamed, so shocked by Fallon’s initial attack, he appeared to have forgotten that he had a pistol stuck in his pants.

      People across the street stared at the café.

      Fallon brought the bar up, like a bat, and swung. He could have aimed for the big man’s head or neck, but Fallon had no interest in killing anyone today. This was not a prison riot, a brawl. This was not—at least for the time being—a fight with hardened men with a kill-or-be-killed attitude. This was just, well, a little welcoming party from three thugs who СКАЧАТЬ