Read Online Grimm Tales by John Kenyon - Free Book Online Page B

froze, and his eyes about leapt out of his head.
    â€œKeep back, and you won’t get hurt,” army jacket said to Johnny.
    â€œHe’s lying,” I said, trying to reach my waistband real inconspicuous. Always carry a throwaway piece, Taylor, that’s my advice. “He’ll dice you and dump you over. You help me, I’ll watch out for you.”
    â€œLook,” Johnny began, “I don’t want any—”
    But army jacket was already coming at me. Those skiffs, they’re narrow. Johnny could’ve sidestepped. Instead, he tried to knock army jacket down, got that knife in the side for his trouble. You ever seen a man stabbed, Taylor? It isn’t like the movies. Blood everywhere, right like that. But it gave me time to pull my piece. Put one in army jacket’s throat, another in his chest. In the drink he went, all nice and neat. I tossed the gun in after him.
    The flats are no-wake zones, but I burned that skiff over them all the way back to dock. Forget the pole. Army jacket had gotten Johnny through muscle far as I could tell, but the hospital was far off. I came up with a story and told him to stick to it. Didn’t matter much. He was barely conscious when we hit the ER. Myself, I didn’t even get to finish telling the triage nurse about the supposed crackhead who jumped us down at the dock because this plainclothes cop showed up. Real spit-and-polish that one. Could cut yourself on the creases in his slacks. Shoes so shiny you could shave in them. Hair all slicked back. And, get this, he was wearing an overcoat. In the
Keys.
He tucked his hand in his pocket at one point, and I saw this nickled .45, bright as chrome. He called himself Lieutenant Ramirez. I told him what I’d started telling the nurse, and when I got done, he just stared at me.
    â€œMister Pittoni,” he said, because that was the name on the ID I happened to be carrying, “why don’t you repeat what happened from the beginning.”
    I didn’t like that. He started interrupting, probing, asking me what color the perp’s hair was, exactly what he said, which way he fled. Fortunately, I’ve got a good memory, even for things I’ve made up. Finally, he gave me his card and the whole “don’t leave town” bit, and said he was going to talk with Johnny’s wife, who’d apparently come in.
    There goes my vacation, right? I wasn’t worried about Ramirez for his own sake. Even back then I knew people who golfed with judges. No, I didn’t want any attention alighting back home. One of those better safe than sorry situations, you know? I went back to the hotel, called my people, ordered Chinese. Then the phone rang. I answered, and who was on the other end but Johnny.
    â€œMister Palmera,” he said, “I wanted to let you know the doctor thinks I’ll be okay.” He sounded drugged to the gills, but basically together.
    â€œHow’d you get my number?” I asked.
    â€œMy wife called around. I remembered your, uh, other name from when you paid me earlier. Listen, Mister Palmera, we could use some help.”
    â€œYeah?” I said, feeling stupid, because on the skiff I’d promised to look out for him, and I don’t break promises.
    Johnny went on for a while, telling me how guiding doesn’t pay much, how his wife wouldn’t be able to watch after him because she had to work, how he’d need home healthcare to help him piss and everything till he got back up on his feet.
    Now, Taylor, that tugged at my heartstrings. He was just a bystander after all. I called home again, got the name of an expat in Miami named Mattias Donegan. The Family had him on retainer, and he had a reputation for being light-fingered and laundering lily-white. Polite, too. Next day, Johnny got a care package delivered by a guy with an accent. Brownies, books—and five thousand in mixed bills at the bottom.
    I didn’t think about