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Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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agreed, rubbing light fingers over his ribs. “But I’m feeling rather fond of him at the moment.”
“What on earth for?”
“He’s the only one who didn’t hit me.”
She shivered again.
“Then too, he was kind enough to grant another extension on the two grand—one more week.”
“That’s not kindness,” she scoffed, “that’s good business. If they kill you, you’ll never pay them back.”‘
“That was mentioned.” He stood up slowly. “I have to lie down now.”
She followed him into the bedroom, and didn’t protest when he lay down on his own bed, even though she’d begun to think of it as hers. “Aren’t you going to take off your shoes?” she asked, reaching for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
“Can’t. Too stiff. Would you do it for me? Ah, Sister Augustine, you’re an angel of mercy.”
She remembered the last time he’d called her an angel of mercy, and yanked off his shoes with unnecessary force. “What am I supposed to do while you’re lying here recovering?” she asked crossly. “From wounds you brought on yourself, I might add. Why don’t you have any food in your house? Were you hoping to starve me out?”
He grinned, then groaned when the movement tore at the sticking plaster on his lip. “Around the corner on Sansome,” he said carefully, “there’s a restaurant called Belle’s. Great corned beef, lousy stew, pretty good pie. They know me there. Say my name and they’ll fix you up.”
Her mouth had begun to water. “Thanks. What do I use for money?”
He made a magnanimous gesture with one hand. “Tell ’em to put it on my tab.”
“Okay.” She stood still, reluctant to leave. “Well.” She quit fidgeting with the blanket edge, jerked it up and tucked it around his chest. “You’ll be all right, I assume,” she said brusquely. “By yourself, I mean.”
The brown eye that wasn’t bloodshot winked at her. “Fine. I’m going to sleep. Thanks for the first aid, Gus. You’ve got great hands.”
“Head hurt?”
“Mm.”
“It’s probably the bourbon.”
He stroked the bruised bridge of his nose, wincing. “It’s not the bourbon. Oh, Grace,” he remembered as she turned away. “Be sure to wake me up by three o’clock, will you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve still got business to take care of,” he answered importantly.
She leaned against the doorpost and folded her arms. “You want to visit as many post offices as you can before they close,” she guessed silkily. “To see who might’ve enrolled in the International Society of Literature, Science, and Art while you were out of town.”
It was a deep, warming pleasure to watch his mouth drop open. He regarded her for a long time in silent speculation. “You rummied my desk,” he said at last, and there was a gratifying note of wonder in his voice, maybe even admiration.
She smiled modestly.
“What’d you use?”
“A pick and a little homemade tension wrench.”
“Which you just happened to have on you?”
“A girl’s got to be prepared. No,” she chuckled, “I made them.”
“You made them?”
“Out of hairpins.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Three o’clock, Gus, wake me up. And then I want to see you crack that lock. I want to see it.”
She shrugged again, then expanded it into a lazy stretch. “If I feel like it,” she said airily. “Sleep tight.” She closed the door with exaggerated gentleness and tiptoed away.
4
I don’t know of anything better than a woman if you want to spend money where it’ll show.
—Kin Hubbard
“‘T WO TRAVELERS ON THE stagecoach disappeared immediately following the robbery, absconding with the captured gunman’s horse. One is believed to have been posing as a Catholic nun, for purposes of illegal charitable soliciting. The other, a man calling himself Edward Cordoba, allegedly from Monterey, is suspected of feigning blindness for unknown reasons.
“What on earth for?”
“He’s the only one who didn’t hit me.”
She shivered again.
“Then too, he was kind enough to grant another extension on the two grand—one more week.”
“That’s not kindness,” she scoffed, “that’s good business. If they kill you, you’ll never pay them back.”‘
“That was mentioned.” He stood up slowly. “I have to lie down now.”
She followed him into the bedroom, and didn’t protest when he lay down on his own bed, even though she’d begun to think of it as hers. “Aren’t you going to take off your shoes?” she asked, reaching for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
“Can’t. Too stiff. Would you do it for me? Ah, Sister Augustine, you’re an angel of mercy.”
She remembered the last time he’d called her an angel of mercy, and yanked off his shoes with unnecessary force. “What am I supposed to do while you’re lying here recovering?” she asked crossly. “From wounds you brought on yourself, I might add. Why don’t you have any food in your house? Were you hoping to starve me out?”
He grinned, then groaned when the movement tore at the sticking plaster on his lip. “Around the corner on Sansome,” he said carefully, “there’s a restaurant called Belle’s. Great corned beef, lousy stew, pretty good pie. They know me there. Say my name and they’ll fix you up.”
Her mouth had begun to water. “Thanks. What do I use for money?”
He made a magnanimous gesture with one hand. “Tell ’em to put it on my tab.”
“Okay.” She stood still, reluctant to leave. “Well.” She quit fidgeting with the blanket edge, jerked it up and tucked it around his chest. “You’ll be all right, I assume,” she said brusquely. “By yourself, I mean.”
The brown eye that wasn’t bloodshot winked at her. “Fine. I’m going to sleep. Thanks for the first aid, Gus. You’ve got great hands.”
“Head hurt?”
“Mm.”
“It’s probably the bourbon.”
He stroked the bruised bridge of his nose, wincing. “It’s not the bourbon. Oh, Grace,” he remembered as she turned away. “Be sure to wake me up by three o’clock, will you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve still got business to take care of,” he answered importantly.
She leaned against the doorpost and folded her arms. “You want to visit as many post offices as you can before they close,” she guessed silkily. “To see who might’ve enrolled in the International Society of Literature, Science, and Art while you were out of town.”
It was a deep, warming pleasure to watch his mouth drop open. He regarded her for a long time in silent speculation. “You rummied my desk,” he said at last, and there was a gratifying note of wonder in his voice, maybe even admiration.
She smiled modestly.
“What’d you use?”
“A pick and a little homemade tension wrench.”
“Which you just happened to have on you?”
“A girl’s got to be prepared. No,” she chuckled, “I made them.”
“You made them?”
“Out of hairpins.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Three o’clock, Gus, wake me up. And then I want to see you crack that lock. I want to see it.”
She shrugged again, then expanded it into a lazy stretch. “If I feel like it,” she said airily. “Sleep tight.” She closed the door with exaggerated gentleness and tiptoed away.
4
I don’t know of anything better than a woman if you want to spend money where it’ll show.
—Kin Hubbard
“‘T WO TRAVELERS ON THE stagecoach disappeared immediately following the robbery, absconding with the captured gunman’s horse. One is believed to have been posing as a Catholic nun, for purposes of illegal charitable soliciting. The other, a man calling himself Edward Cordoba, allegedly from Monterey, is suspected of feigning blindness for unknown reasons.
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