Read Online Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant - Free Book Online Page A

me, I can feel his eyes probing every square inch of my intentions.
    When I glance to my right, his shaved-head doppelganger is occupying a similar position. This mountain is darker and swarthier than his companion, but just as silent.
    No one is paying any attention to me at all, which only makes me more nervous. I’m not a big fan of silence. I’m happy that Prince Marmalade the Purr Machine is in my life. Bubbles, the world’s oldest goldfish, was never much for chatter, but then again I wasn’t around for his final words. I can only guess they were cursing my name for leaving him alone with Prince when I went to work. Who knew kittens could jump so high?
    A door connecting the private room to the kitchen opens and a razor-thin man enters in a tailored suit that matches the gray pallor of his skin. He smiles at me with teeth that have lost their luster, but none of their bite. His nose reminds me of a shark fin with a small bite taken out of one nostril. If he floated on his back in a pool, small children would scream.
    â€œYou are Dixie Flynn the reporter,” he says with a Russian accent that has been refined and polished to remove the grit. “I am Krasnyi Lebed.” He gestures toward the table. “Please, sit. I have ordered tea.”
    â€œLovely,” I say with a smile, and take a chair.
    Lebed rests his elbows on the table and tucks his chin into his hands as he studies me. His wrists are so thin that half the links have been removed from the band of his platinum Rolex watch.
    â€œI am surprised that our paths have not crossed before,” he says, “but then, you do tend to spend more time in the gutter than the palace.”
    â€œI wouldn’t necessarily say the gutter—”
    â€œI would,” he interrupts. “You may call it social conscience—I hear that is the buzz word people like to use these days—but really when you are writing about dumpster divers and injection clinics and former street walkers trying to go straight, the gutter is not below them, it is still all around.”
    â€œAnd what would you have me report on?” I ask, refusing to rise to the bait.
    â€œWhat about political corruption?”
    I blink. “Well, sure, if—”
    â€œI could point you in the right directions.”
    My inner radar begins to beep with its Lost in Space mantra: Danger, Dixie Flynn! Danger!
    â€œThat’s generous of you,” I say cautiously. “I’m always open to reliable tips.”
    â€œGood.” He unclasps his hands and stares at me through dull eyes that suck in light and make the whole room gloomier. “The tea is here.”
    Lebed sits up straight as the kitchen door swings open and a white-aproned server delivers a silver teapot along with a three-tiered tray of crackers, black caviar on ice, smoked fish, pickles, and sweet pastries. I begin to regret going for ice cream with Pinch, but then again I did only have time for one mini burger at the Pink Bicycle.
    After the server departs, Lebed pours tea into two china cups and passes one over. He appears to take caution that our fingers don’t accidentally touch.
    â€œThis is good Russian tea,” he says. “Strong and hearty, like it should be.”
    I take a sip, control my shudder at the distinct smoky density of it, and smile. “Nice.”
    Lebed shakes his head. “Not nice. Russia does not have such a word. It is khorosho .”
    â€œ Khorosho ,” I say, attempting to duplicate his intonation.
    Lebed smiles for the first time and looks over at his two guards. “ Nyeplokho .”
    The guards nod ever so slightly in agreement with whatever their boss has just said.
    â€œWould you care for jam in your tea?” Lebed asks.
    I shake my head while pretending that isn’t one of the oddest things I’ve ever heard. “Black is fine.”
    He smiles again and wags a finger at me. “You may have some Russian in