Broadway Bounty

Chapter Thirty

“You wouldn’t tell Lola your name,” Mosca said.

“There wasn’t any reason to.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Are you inviting me to sit with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you my name.”

Decker had been thinking about this as he crossed the floor to Mosca’s table. If he told the truth and said his name was Decker, would that dissuade Ar-mand Coles from coming after him? Should he lie and say his name was Dover?

No. He decided that the time for playing someone else was past. Let Coles and everybody else know whom they were coming after.

“My name’s Decker.”

“All right, Mr. Decker,” Mosca said. “Have a seat.”

Now, there were only four chairs at the table, and all of them were taken. Lola was sitting on Mosca’s lap again.

Decker looked around, and there were no chairs available to be pulled over from another table.

“Doesn’t seem to be a chair,” he said to Mosca.

“Pick one,” Mosca said, indicating the other three occupied chairs at his table.

Decker looked at all three seated men, each of whom looked more than willing to die for the chair he was sitting in—if Mosca gave the word.

“They’re your men,” Decker said. “You pick the one you want to die over a chair.”

Mosca stared at Decker for a few moments, then looked at one of his men and said, “Get up, Sykes.”

The man named Sykes got up, and Decker sat down.

“Why do you have a shotgun inside your jacket?” Mosca asked.

“I heard this was a rough place.”

“And is it?”

“Not so far.”

Mosca laughed, a great booming laugh that drew everyone’s attention.

“You don’t think this is a tough place, huh?”

“I said not so far.”

“There ain’t a man in here who wouldn’t kill you if I gave the word.”

“That might be so,” Decker said, “but you let me get close enough so that if you did, you’d be the first to die. That tells me that you aren’t about to give the word.”

Mosca’s black eyes studied Decker, and then he said, “You’re right about that. Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, Decker?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Do you see him here?”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “I don’t know what he looks like.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell are you looking for him?”

“He’s going to try and kill me.”

“He is?” Mosca said, raising his bushy black eyebrows. “Now, why would he want to do that?”

“He’s being paid to.”

“By who?”

“By another man.”

“Well,” Mosca said, “that sure makes sense. It’s a better reason than some of these rats need.”

“His name’s Coles.”

“Whose name?”

“The man I’m looking for,” Decker said. “Armand Coles.”

“The man who’s gonna kill you?”

“That’s right. He drinks here sometimes.”

“That a fact?” Mosca said. “What’s the other man’s name? The one that done the hiring?”

“That’s not your concern.”

That was the first thing that Decker had said that seemed to upset Mosca. The big man leaned forward, causing Lola to fall off his lap and land with a thud on the floor.

“Jesus, Mosca—”

“Shut up and take a walk!” Mosca growled at her.

She got to her feet, rubbing her ample posterior, and walked over to the bar.

“You come in here,” Mosca said to Decker, leaning on the table, “where you don’t belong, and you tell me something ain’t my concern?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You got a lot of guts.”

“Do you know Coles?”

“Everybody knows Coles,” Mosca said, “but nobody here knows you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That means that if Coles was in here, and he made a move against you, he’d have a lot of backing, and you’d have none.”

“Guess that makes me kind of foolish, don’t it?” Decker said.

“Guess it does.”

“So I guess I’ll be leaving.”

“If I say so, you will.”

“If I don’t,” Decker said, “you don’t.”

Mosca sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly.

“I said I knew Coles, not that I was ready to die for him. You can leave—just don’t come back.”

“I won’t.”

“And take your pup over there at the bar with you.”

Decker looked at Billy Rosewood and jerked his head toward the door. Rosewood moved away from the bar, walked to the door and left the saloon.

“Now you.”

“If you make a move against me, Mosca, I’ll have to kill you.”

“This is between you and Coles, Decker,” Mosca said. “I said we knew him, but Armand Coles has no friends in here.”

“Good enough,” Decker said.

Decker stood up, then looked over at Lola, who was leaning on the bar with both elbows, her impressive chest thrust forward.

“Maybe another time, Lola.”

She smiled at him and winked, and Decker backed toward the door, deeping his eyes on Mosca. At the big man’s slightest move, he would pull his shotgun and blow the man’s gut wide open—although he’d prefer to avoid that.

He stopped when his back hit the door.

“If Coles is here,” he said out loud, “or if any of you ever see him, tell him to come at me from the front and not from the back like a coward. You tell him that.”

Decker reached behind him with his left hand, opened the door and backed out.

“Whew!” Billy Rosewood said. “I thought for sure we were dead.”

“Now, what made you think that?”

“The way Mosca was talking.”

“Billy,” Decker said, “talking doesn’t kill. Killing kills.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means that if a man’s going to kill you, he doesn’t talk about it—he does it.”

“You said you’d kill Mosca.”

“The call was his,” Decker said, “but believe me, if he had made it, I would have killed him.”

“I believe you.”

“Let’s get going,” Decker said. He started down the street to where Rosewood had left his cab.

“Where to?” Rosewood asked, trotting to catch up.

“The hospital.”

“You hurt?”

“No,” Decker said, “I’m just keeping a promise.”