Read Online The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert B. Parker
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starts at the corner of the mouth and runs back to the ears. Ugly. I opened the fire door and stepped into the hall. The man in the other corridor wasn’t visible.
I walked straight down the hall past my door. I could sense a slight movement at the corner of the corridor. I turned the corridor corner and he was standing a little uncertainly, trying to look unconcerned but half suspicious. I must look like his description, but why hadn’t I gone into my room. His hand was still in his raincoat pocket. The raincoat was open. I walked past him three steps, turned around and yanked the open raincoat down over his arms. He struggled to get his arm out of his pocket. Without letting go of his coat I took the gun out from under my arm with my right hand and pressed it into the hollow behind his ear.
“England swings,” I said, “like a pendulum do.”
10
“Take your right hand about one inch out of your pocket,” I said, “and stop.”
He did. There was no gun in it.
“Okay, now put both hands behind your back and clasp them.” I let go of his coat with my left hand and reached around and took the pistol out of his pocket. Target gun number four. I stuck it in my left-hand jacket pocket where it sagged very unfashionably. I patted him down quickly with my left hand. He didn’t have another piece.
“Very good. Now put both hands back in your pockets,” He did. “What’s your name?”
“Suck my ass,” he said.
“Okay, Suck,” I said. “We’re going down the corridor and pick up your buddy. If you have an itch, don’t scratch it. If you hiccup or sneeze or yawn or bat your eyes I am going to shoot a hole through your head.” I held the back of his collar with my left hand and kept the muzzle of my gun pressed in behind his right ear and we walked down the corridor. Past the elevator, behind the fire doors there was nobody. I hadn’t hit him hard enough and whiskers was up and away. He didn’t have a weapon and I didn’t think he’d try me without one. I had already killed two of his buddies armed. “Suck, my boy,” I said, “I think you’ve been forsaken. But I won’t turn my back on you. We’ll go to my place and rap.”
“Don’t call me Suck, you bloody bastard,” His English sounded upper class but not quite native. I took out my room key and gave it to him. The gun still at his neck.
“Open the door, Scum Bag, and step in.” He did. No bomb went off. I went in after him and kicked the door shut. “Sit there,” I said and shoved him toward the armchair near the airshaft. He sat. I put the gun back in my shoulder holster. Put the two target pistols on the top shelf of the closet, took my wig and mustache and tie out of my pockets, took off my blue blazer and hung it up.
“What’s your name?” I said. He stared at me without speaking. “You English?”
He was silent.
“Do you know that I get twenty-five hundred dollars for you alive or dead, and dead is easier?”
He crossed one pudgy leg over the other one and locked his hands over his knees.
I went to the bureau and took out a pair of brown leather work gloves and slipped them on, slowly, like I’d seen Jack Palance do in Shane, wiggling my fingers down into them till they were snug. “What is your name?” I said.
He gathered some saliva in his mouth and spit on the rug in my direction. I took two steps toward him, grabbed hold of his chin with my left hand and yanked his face up at mine. He took a gravity knife out of his sock and made a pass at my throat.
I leaned back and the point just nicked me under the chin. I caught the knife hand at the wrist as it went by with my right, stepped around behind him, put my left hand into his armpit and dislocated his elbow. The knife fell to the carpet. He made a harsh, half-stifled-yell. I kicked the knife across the room and let go of his arm. It hung at an odd angle.
I stepped away from him and went to look at my chin in the mirror over the
I walked straight down the hall past my door. I could sense a slight movement at the corner of the corridor. I turned the corridor corner and he was standing a little uncertainly, trying to look unconcerned but half suspicious. I must look like his description, but why hadn’t I gone into my room. His hand was still in his raincoat pocket. The raincoat was open. I walked past him three steps, turned around and yanked the open raincoat down over his arms. He struggled to get his arm out of his pocket. Without letting go of his coat I took the gun out from under my arm with my right hand and pressed it into the hollow behind his ear.
“England swings,” I said, “like a pendulum do.”
10
“Take your right hand about one inch out of your pocket,” I said, “and stop.”
He did. There was no gun in it.
“Okay, now put both hands behind your back and clasp them.” I let go of his coat with my left hand and reached around and took the pistol out of his pocket. Target gun number four. I stuck it in my left-hand jacket pocket where it sagged very unfashionably. I patted him down quickly with my left hand. He didn’t have another piece.
“Very good. Now put both hands back in your pockets,” He did. “What’s your name?”
“Suck my ass,” he said.
“Okay, Suck,” I said. “We’re going down the corridor and pick up your buddy. If you have an itch, don’t scratch it. If you hiccup or sneeze or yawn or bat your eyes I am going to shoot a hole through your head.” I held the back of his collar with my left hand and kept the muzzle of my gun pressed in behind his right ear and we walked down the corridor. Past the elevator, behind the fire doors there was nobody. I hadn’t hit him hard enough and whiskers was up and away. He didn’t have a weapon and I didn’t think he’d try me without one. I had already killed two of his buddies armed. “Suck, my boy,” I said, “I think you’ve been forsaken. But I won’t turn my back on you. We’ll go to my place and rap.”
“Don’t call me Suck, you bloody bastard,” His English sounded upper class but not quite native. I took out my room key and gave it to him. The gun still at his neck.
“Open the door, Scum Bag, and step in.” He did. No bomb went off. I went in after him and kicked the door shut. “Sit there,” I said and shoved him toward the armchair near the airshaft. He sat. I put the gun back in my shoulder holster. Put the two target pistols on the top shelf of the closet, took my wig and mustache and tie out of my pockets, took off my blue blazer and hung it up.
“What’s your name?” I said. He stared at me without speaking. “You English?”
He was silent.
“Do you know that I get twenty-five hundred dollars for you alive or dead, and dead is easier?”
He crossed one pudgy leg over the other one and locked his hands over his knees.
I went to the bureau and took out a pair of brown leather work gloves and slipped them on, slowly, like I’d seen Jack Palance do in Shane, wiggling my fingers down into them till they were snug. “What is your name?” I said.
He gathered some saliva in his mouth and spit on the rug in my direction. I took two steps toward him, grabbed hold of his chin with my left hand and yanked his face up at mine. He took a gravity knife out of his sock and made a pass at my throat.
I leaned back and the point just nicked me under the chin. I caught the knife hand at the wrist as it went by with my right, stepped around behind him, put my left hand into his armpit and dislocated his elbow. The knife fell to the carpet. He made a harsh, half-stifled-yell. I kicked the knife across the room and let go of his arm. It hung at an odd angle.
I stepped away from him and went to look at my chin in the mirror over the
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