Butcher's Moon

Thirty-six

Sunday was early closing; local ordinances prohibited liquor sales after midnight. Not that Faran or any of the other local saloonkeepers really minded, since Sunday was a dead night anyway. They were mostly glad of the excuse to close up, throw the few regulars out, and go home.

Angie came into Faran’s office a few minutes after midnight, bringing him a final drink. “Everybody’s set outside,” she said.

He was totaling the figures. “Fine.”

“I’m taking off now.”

He kept his eyes and his mind on his paperwork. “Okay.” She hesitated. “Will I see you later?”

He looked up. “I’m not sure, Angie. I’m feeling a little shaky.”

“Is it me, Frank? Did I do something?”

“Hey, no,” he said. Getting to his feet, surprising himself with the sudden rush of tenderness he felt toward the girl, he went around the desk and took her upper arms in his hands. “Nothing wrong with you at all, Angie. It’s just all this trouble we’ve been having. Give me a couple days, let things calm down, then everything will be just fine again.”

“Okay,” she said, and gave him a tentative smile. “You had me a little worried.”

“Don’t worry, Angie. Don’t worry about a thing.” He kissed her briefly and released her. “I’m just nervous these days, that’s all.”

”Okay, Frank. Good night.”

He watched her walk toward the door, skinny and tight, and felt the old ripples in his loins. “Maybe—” he said. She turned to look back at him.

He grinned and bobbed his head. “Maybe I’ll stop over later on.”

“Any time, Frank.”

“I’m not sure. Just maybe.”

“If I’m asleep,” she said, “just wake me.” She gave him a lazy grin and said, “You know how.”

“Yes, I do.”

He watched her leave, but the instant she was out of sight his mind veered away again. Al Lozini’s death, the replacement of Farrell for Wain, Dutch Buenadella taking over, Hal Calesian suddenly some kind of major power, that guy Parker still prowling around—it was enough to give a man nightmares. Even if he could get to sleep in the first place.

Faran had another ten minutes’ work. The numbers distracted him, soothed his mind, and the drink Angie had brought also helped. He was feeling a little better when he left the office, made his way through the empty club, turned the lights off at the main box by the front door, and went outside.

He was locking the door when he felt the gun in his back. His knees weakened, and he leaned against the door. “Jesus God,” he whispered.

It was Parker; Parker’s voice, saying, “Come on, Frank. Let’s take a walk.”