Silk kept his hand cupped around his ear. “What?’ he said in Rocky’s face. “I can’t hear with all this racket.”
Click.
Steele blasted a second shot, closer this time. Wood splintered off of the side of a pool table and splashed Silk on his cheek.
Silk brushed his hand down the side of his face and glared at Steele. “You’re starting to piss me off here.”
“I’ll tell you!” Rocky screamed. “I’ll tell you!”
“See,” Silk said. “His memory came back to him.”
“He lives over on Sycamore,” the words rushed out of the man’s mouth. “Take 260 east toward Heber. About two miles past the Ranger Station on the right hand side is Sycamore. That’s the road he lives on. Second house on the left.”
Silk patted the Rocky’s face. “Good boy.” Then Silk’s face turned dark. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
Rocky shook his head furiously, his eyes fixed on Silk’s revolver. “N-n-n-o.”
Silk reached into the man’s back pocket and yanked out his wallet. He opened the billfold and pulled out some plastic cards. His forehead wrinkled. “Your name is Arthur? I thought she was asking you if your name was Rocky.”
The man was still trembling. “That’s what my friends call me.”
“Oh. You wanna know what my friends call me?”
The man’s eyes rose in anticipation, like he was extremely eager to hear something so important.
“Well, the ones that don’t lie to me call me Silk. Wanna hear what the ones who lie to me call me?”
Rocky’s tremble segued into a nod.
Silk smiled. “Well, let’s just say, graveyards don’t have any telephone booths. So they don’t get to call me so much.” Silk stood and held up the man’s wallet. “And I know where you live.”
Steele wiped her forehead with the back of her gun hand. “You’re crazy,” she muttered.
Silk dismissed Rocky. “Go home, Arthur,” he said. “And change those pants, will ya?”
Rocky got to his feet and shuffled backward toward the door, dubiously staring at Silk, never showing him his back.
Silk walked up to Steele, opened his cell phone and began pushing buttons.
“What are you doing?” Steele said.
“I’m calling Nick with the info. That’s why we came, right?”
“We need to discuss what just happened.”
“What is it with you broads, always gotta talk?”
Steele ignored the comment. “There’s been a shooting. I have to write a report. You almost killed an innocent man.”
“What, the bartender?” Silk asked. “I shot him in the leg on purpose. If I wanted, I’d of nailed him between the eyes.”
“I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about your other victim.”
“What, Arthur?” Silk looked bewildered.
“Yes, Arthur. You could have killed him playing your little game of Russian roulette.”
Silk let a breath out and shook his head. “Listen,” he glanced over his shoulder at the empty bar. “I’ll tell you something that I never told nobody. Ever. You understand what I’m saying?”
Steele nodded, without a clue as to what he was talking about.
“I make my living through intimidation and fear. I make both of these things do a lot of my work for me. Capisce?”
Silk raised his revolver and slid open the cylinder. He rotated the cylinder exposing six empty chambers. Like a smooth magician, he opened the palm of his left hand and showed Steele the missing bullet. “You know how much I practice that move? Maybe two, three hours a month. Every month.” He pointed a finger at her. “But if word ever got out that I use this move, I might as well open up a deli in Topeka, Kansas. Sensitive guy like me would get eaten alive.”
Steele pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me ahead of time? I could have shot you.”
Silk stifled a laugh. “What, and ruin a perfectly good performance? Besides, when we left the Sheriff’s office, Nick said to let me do whatever I needed to do. I know you didn’t forget that.”
Silk continued to push the buttons on his cell phone, hovered his index finger over the send button and looked up at Steele. “Are we done talking here? Or do you wanna know about my feelings?”
Steele shook her head. The KSF could learn a lot about terrorism from a guy like Silk.
Chapter 35
Angel Herrera sat hunched over a grilled cheese sandwich with his hand on a cool longneck bottle of beer when he heard the noise. He picked up the remote control from his TV tray and lowered the volume on Jeopardy. Alex Trebek mouthed the question to an answer that Angel didn’t know. Angel hadn’t known the question to any of the answers Alex was giving. He was on his fifth longneck, but probably wouldn’t have known any of the questions even if he’d been sober. Ever since he found Fred Wilson decapitated, Angel couldn’t get enough alcohol in his system. The foreign bastards were sneaking into America and killing innocent citizens — including a harmless businessman like Fred.
Angel had heard the rumors about terrorists hiding out in the Payson area and it spooked him. His name was in the paper as the person who found Fred and he wondered if the terrorists knew that he had seen the killer. In fact, he knew exactly where the killer lived. It was the reason why he never said anything to the Sheriff. What kind of protection would he get? A patrol car might drive by a couple of times a day, but what good would that do him? He figured he had a better chance of staying alive by keeping his mouth shut and letting it go.
It seemed like a good plan until now. He heard the noise outside of his cabin sounding like something moving. Angel’s wife, Mabel, was in the basement doing laundry, so he knew it wasn’t her. He waited to hear more. Nothing. Maybe a branch scraping up against the siding, like it always did whenever the wind picked up. He glanced out of his living room window and saw there was no wind. Not a breath.
He turned back toward the TV and saw, “Breaking News,” at the bottom of the screen. He raised the volume and took a pull on his bottle of beer. The screen went blank for a moment, then a local newswoman was standing in front of a familiar landmark.
“Theresa Sanchez reporting for Channel 3 News. I’m live at the Winchester Bar and Grill, where a shooting took place just minutes ago.”
Angel almost choked on his half-swallowed beer. He’d planned to head down to the Winchester after dinner. The woman held her hand to her ear as if someone was talking to her through an earphone, maybe even telling her what to say. “Eyewitnesses have told Channel 3 News that Max Gordon, owner of the Winchester, was shot and rushed to the hospital. We also have reports that a dark-haired man in a white tee-shirt was seen running from the scene shortly after the shots. It is yet to be confirmed whether this event is related to the terrorist organization reportedly hiding somewhere in the Payson vicinity. We will keep you informed with any breaking news as it happens. Theresa Sanchez, Channel 3 News.”
Another sound, this time from the backyard. Angel shut off the TV. He crept to the kitchen and turned off the overhead lights. He peeked past the curtain hanging over the sink. It was dead still. Angel squinted into the tree line behind his cabin. He thought he saw something. He squinted harder and his peripheral vision became hyperactive with movement. If he stared straight at something it wouldn’t budge, but everything around it seemed to come alive with motion. Someone was out there.
He pulled open a kitchen drawer and grabbed a long carving knife. His senses swirled with suspicion. He thought he heard a man’s voice. He picked up the telephone hanging on the wall. The line was dead.
Shit. His gun was in the glove box of his truck out front like always. Just great.