Broadway Bounty

Chapter Twenty-three

When Decker awoke the next morning, he didn’t know what ached more, his shoulder or his back. Also his mouth was very dry. As if on cue, a nurse entered.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Where’s Miss Hamilton?” he asked.

“She won’t be on duty again until later tonight,” this woman said. She came close to the bed, and he saw that she was a pleasant enough looking woman in her forties, certainly no Linda Hamilton.

She poured him some water from an iced pitcher and helped him drink it.

“I understand you’ll be leaving us this morning.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm,” she said. Apparently, she was the talkative type. “The doctor is very upset about it. He’d like to keep you here for a few days.”

“Why is that?”

“He says a razor cut like that can get infected very easily.” She looked down at him then and asked, “How on earth did you get a cut like that, anyway?”

“I cut myself shaving.”

“I see,” she said, frowning. “Well, I’ll be back later to help you get dressed.”

“Ah, will I be signing myself out this morning?” he asked as she headed for the door.

“From what I hear, there’s a policeman coming to get you,” she said. She turned and said to him, “Do they arrest you now for cutting yourself shaving?”

She was out the door before he could figure out if she had a sense of humor or not.

When Tally came in two hours later, he was carrying Decker’s clothes with him—as well as the gun and knife.

“Good morning,” he said.

“It’s about time,” Decker said. “What took you so long to get here?”

“Sorry about that, but I started the day out in a particularly bad way.”

“Oh?” Decker said, tossing back the sheet so he could swing his feet to the floor. “How’s that?”

“With a murder.”

“Anybody I know?”

“We were checking on contacts who might have supplied your man with Razor,” Tally said.

“And?”

“And we found one of them dead. A man named Albert Bolan. I don’t think we need look any further.”

“How was he killed?”

“His throat was cut…with a straight razor.”

Decker stood up and gingerly began to dress.

“So he was killed by Razor? That doesn’t make sense if Razor worked for him.”

“Well, he didn’t actually work for him as much as through him. There are any number of miscreants who work through agents, so to speak. Bolan was an agent, but there’s something else odd about his death.”

“Like what?”

“He was killed this morning.”

That stopped Decker again.

“But…Razor was dead this morning.”

“Ah, yes,” Tally said.

“Then somebody killed Bolan and wanted it to look like Razor did it.”

“Go on.”

“Somebody doesn’t want to be found.”

“Exactly.”

“So we found the agent, but we’re still in the blind.”

“I’m afraid so,” Tally said. “All we have now is one thing.”

“Me?”

Tally nodded.

“You.”

“You’re putting me on the street so you can wait for whoever killed Bolan to try and kill me.”

“That’s such a crude way of putting it.”

“But accurate.”

“Yes,” Tally said, “accurate.”

“Well,” Decker said, “if I’m to be your bait, the least you could do is help me with my pants.”

The story of Albert Bolan’s death was in the newspaper that morning. He was described as a store owner who was apparently killed during an attempted robbery.

Over breakfast at the small café where Marcy worked, Oakley Ready read the report.

Apparently, Armand Coles had cut his own deal in more ways than one.

The story had told Ready something else, as well.

Coles was treacherous, a man to be watched very carefully.

A man to be killed as soon as possible—as soon as Decker was dead.