Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey Page B

shrieked.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” Randy said, and turned to face the back seat. He found the muzzle of my .45 in his nostril and Ron’s .357 in his ear.
    â€œYou’re under arrest, asshole,” I said. It was Randy’s line, but he reeked of high-octane alcohol and I doubt he appreciated the irony. He drew a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and pushed his torso forward. I racked my hammer. Randy froze.
    â€œRon and I have a bet,” I said. “Ron says you hear the bang. I say you don’t. If you hear the bang, just blink twice while you’re checking out. You gotta concentrate. Ron’s oh and three, and looking to get even.”
    â€œHe’ll hear this one,” said Ron as he cocked the hammer back on his K-frame.
    Karen rolled into a whimpering fetal ball and attempted to make herself small against her side of the van.
    Ron patted Randy down with his free hand, then looked at me and shrugged.
    â€œWhere’s the gun?” I said. “You better not have dropped it in some kid’s sandbox!”
    â€œThe bedroom,” he said. “I dropped it in the bedroom!”
    â€œTurn around easy,” I said.
    Ron backed off the big Smith, but only about six inches.
    â€œSlowly,” I said.
    Randy eased back around into the seat. Ron hit the electric door lock with his left elbow.
    â€œHook up your seat belt,” I said. “It’s the law!”
    Randy hooked up.
    â€œHook your hands under the lap belt,” I told him and switched my pistol to my left hand. I reached up with my right and pulled the shoulder belt down to its full extent so that it was tight across Randy’s chest and I could feel him fidget. I pushed the muzzle of the auto loader into the seat back.
    â€œNow, by my calculation, the entire night shift is on the way.” In fact, we could see the rollers turning off Burton and onto Paris Street. Ron switched the K-frame to his left hand and lowered it to his lap, keeping it pointed in Randy’s direction. “We’re just going to ease on down the street. If any of your mess-kit buddies stop us, we’re just going to turn you over. Then, you won’t have a chance to explain just what the fuck you thought you were doing.”
    â€œI don’t have to say shit,” said Randy.
    â€œYou don’t have to say shit to the po-lease,” I said. “And here they come, so if you want, you can start not talking to them right now.”

6
    â€œI came to kill you,” said Police Officer Randal Talon.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause you’re screwing my wife.”
    Half the town was apparently screwing Randal Talon’s wife, but, allowing for how truly deafening it is to discharge a big-bore handgun inside an automobile, and given how juicy and spongy people are—you never really get it all cleaned up, and then it starts to stink—I said, “I wasn’t screwing your wife. Who told you that?”
    The rollers blew by us as if we were invisible.
    â€œChuck and Paulie told me what you said to Franky.”
    â€œI never had a conversation with Sergeant Franklin in the presence of your pals Chuck and Paulie.”
    â€œFranky told them,” said Randy. “You bragged about it.”
    Karen uncoiled into her seat. “Chuck and Paulie always play you for asucker,” she said and then leaned forward. “What makes you think I’d fuck some four-eyed geezer?”
    Ron snorted.
    â€œRight,” I said, “I think. Anyway. Who gave you the cold piece?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œSure you do,” I said. “Your service piece was last seen in the hands of Sergeant Franklin, and you sure as hell wouldn’t drop a registered sidearm.”
    Randy was silent.
    We had rounded the block and Ron pulled up to the curb a half-block short of the residence.
    â€œThere they are,” I said, “the guys you’re protecting.