Read Online Side by Side by John Ramsey Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Ramsey Miller
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, United States Marshals, Kidnapping, Massey, Winter (Fictitious Character)
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followed by thrashing, which made Buck laugh.
“You tell lies on a Smoot just one time!” he hollered down the well, warmed by the booming echo of his own voice. He couldn’t see as far down as the water, but it sounded like it was plenty deep. After a few seconds, Buck turned and went toward the house, slowing long enough to pick up the pipe as he passed by the broken-down lawn mower.
He opened the kitchen door to the loud sounds of country music coming from a radio. A pot of greens simmering on the stove caught his attention. Changing the pipe to his left hand, Buck picked up a spoon and scooped out a bunch of steaming greens. After blowing on them, he ate them.
“Damn, that gal can cook. Ass-kicking sure gives a fellow an appetite,” he mused.
As he chewed, he heard water running into the bathtub. He figured he had plenty of time, so he stood over the stove to get his fill of the greens, wishing Molly had already baked corn bread.
Buck didn’t see any point in interrupting a lady who was taking her last bath.
13
Rudy Spence showed the two men into Mr. Laughlin’s sleekly modern office, where Peanut had just finished going over the financial sheets Mr. Laughlin had given him to look at. After reading them over, Peanut had shredded them as he always did in order to keep them from falling into the wrong hands. According to the figures, Peanut Smoot was a legitimate, taxpaying multimillionaire because he was a full partner in several of Ross Laughlin’s business corporations.
Mr. Laughlin invested money in art, which Peanut didn’t take part in. The lawyer had explained the art to Peanut, but Peanut liked art that you could see a picture in. Aside from the big Mark Rothko painting behind the desk that looked to Peanut like finger painting, a small Klee that also looked like a little kid did it about spacemen, a Matisse that was just shapes of people cut out of colored paper, and a Calder miniature mobile that was painted steel wafers on wire rods that moved around when you touched it, there were thirty identically framed pictures of Ross Laughlin standing beside presidents, a dozen congressmen and senators, and some celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, Burt Reynolds, Liz Taylor, and John Wayne. Those impressed Peanut a lot more than slopped paint.
“Sarnov. Maxwell. Nice to see you fellows,” Peanut said, standing.
“How you been, Peanut?” Max Randall asked him. “You know Serge Sarnov.”
Peanut had met Sarnov once before and he knew that the Russian didn’t say anything unless he had some wise-ass remark to make. Sarnov shook hands like a woman and acted like he was too good to be in the same room as you.
Max Randall was a different story. He’d been an Army Ranger parachuting into Afghanistan weeks before that invasion, along with Colonel Bryce and a few others. In Peanut’s book Bryce and Randall were real men. Both men were nice enough guys, but if push came to shove, both could cut out your heart and eat it like an apple. Bryce hadn’t thought twice about personally cutting the undercover agent’s throat for betraying him—exactly what Peanut would have done in his shoes. Randall had white-blond hair that was short and he had a face like an action-movie star. A strong and fast fellow, Randall didn’t say anything unless he had something that needed saying, and it was always something you’d want to hear.
“I can’t think of anything to complain about,” Peanut replied. “Wait, that sounded like a complaint!” He laughed at his joke.
Peanut would have liked to slap the smirk off Sarnov’s face. First off, Peanut didn’t like foreigners. He especially didn’t like people from any place that had chickened their way out on Iraq, leaving George W. to do it all with just the help of the Brits and a few wormy-looking little whatnots from countries you wouldn’t go to unless your plane was hijacked there.
“Gentlemen,” Laughlin said as he entered the office dressed
“You tell lies on a Smoot just one time!” he hollered down the well, warmed by the booming echo of his own voice. He couldn’t see as far down as the water, but it sounded like it was plenty deep. After a few seconds, Buck turned and went toward the house, slowing long enough to pick up the pipe as he passed by the broken-down lawn mower.
He opened the kitchen door to the loud sounds of country music coming from a radio. A pot of greens simmering on the stove caught his attention. Changing the pipe to his left hand, Buck picked up a spoon and scooped out a bunch of steaming greens. After blowing on them, he ate them.
“Damn, that gal can cook. Ass-kicking sure gives a fellow an appetite,” he mused.
As he chewed, he heard water running into the bathtub. He figured he had plenty of time, so he stood over the stove to get his fill of the greens, wishing Molly had already baked corn bread.
Buck didn’t see any point in interrupting a lady who was taking her last bath.
13
Rudy Spence showed the two men into Mr. Laughlin’s sleekly modern office, where Peanut had just finished going over the financial sheets Mr. Laughlin had given him to look at. After reading them over, Peanut had shredded them as he always did in order to keep them from falling into the wrong hands. According to the figures, Peanut Smoot was a legitimate, taxpaying multimillionaire because he was a full partner in several of Ross Laughlin’s business corporations.
Mr. Laughlin invested money in art, which Peanut didn’t take part in. The lawyer had explained the art to Peanut, but Peanut liked art that you could see a picture in. Aside from the big Mark Rothko painting behind the desk that looked to Peanut like finger painting, a small Klee that also looked like a little kid did it about spacemen, a Matisse that was just shapes of people cut out of colored paper, and a Calder miniature mobile that was painted steel wafers on wire rods that moved around when you touched it, there were thirty identically framed pictures of Ross Laughlin standing beside presidents, a dozen congressmen and senators, and some celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, Burt Reynolds, Liz Taylor, and John Wayne. Those impressed Peanut a lot more than slopped paint.
“Sarnov. Maxwell. Nice to see you fellows,” Peanut said, standing.
“How you been, Peanut?” Max Randall asked him. “You know Serge Sarnov.”
Peanut had met Sarnov once before and he knew that the Russian didn’t say anything unless he had some wise-ass remark to make. Sarnov shook hands like a woman and acted like he was too good to be in the same room as you.
Max Randall was a different story. He’d been an Army Ranger parachuting into Afghanistan weeks before that invasion, along with Colonel Bryce and a few others. In Peanut’s book Bryce and Randall were real men. Both men were nice enough guys, but if push came to shove, both could cut out your heart and eat it like an apple. Bryce hadn’t thought twice about personally cutting the undercover agent’s throat for betraying him—exactly what Peanut would have done in his shoes. Randall had white-blond hair that was short and he had a face like an action-movie star. A strong and fast fellow, Randall didn’t say anything unless he had something that needed saying, and it was always something you’d want to hear.
“I can’t think of anything to complain about,” Peanut replied. “Wait, that sounded like a complaint!” He laughed at his joke.
Peanut would have liked to slap the smirk off Sarnov’s face. First off, Peanut didn’t like foreigners. He especially didn’t like people from any place that had chickened their way out on Iraq, leaving George W. to do it all with just the help of the Brits and a few wormy-looking little whatnots from countries you wouldn’t go to unless your plane was hijacked there.
“Gentlemen,” Laughlin said as he entered the office dressed
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