Peril

MORTIMER

He’d wanted to go home after talking with Caruso, but something in their conversation continued to gnaw at him, a little sharp-toothed beast that wouldn’t stop nipping at his mind. It was Caruso’s tone, so oddly distant, like a man under anesthetic, some part of him gone numb. Why was that? Mortimer wondered now. What the fuck was going on? He thought of Abe, of all that could blow up in his face if Caruso showed up at the bar, tried to strong-arm the woman. He thought of the gun and raged at himself for giving it to him. What did Abe know about guns, for Christ’s sake? He was just as likely to put a bullet in his foot as plug Caruso or Labriola or whoever else tried to get between him and the broad.

Fucking gun, Mortimer thought, his mind now swinging in a different direction as he labored to find a way out for Abe. He could rush to McPherson’s, tell Abe to get out of town and take the woman with him. But where would they go? It didn’t matter really. Labriola would find them eventually. And besides, Caruso would know who’d tipped Abe off. Even worse, this solution, which it couldn’t even be called a solution but Mortimer could find no other word to use, this solution still left Stark behind that black curtain, doing God-knows-what to the poor helpless bastard Caruso had put on him.

Okay, Mortimer thought, first things first. Deal with one thing, clear that up, then go to the next one.

He decided the first thing to deal with was Abe, and what mattered with Abe was getting that gun.

He found him at the bar, all decked out in new clothes, a sure sign that he was still falling.

“You’re becoming a regular, Morty,” Abe said.

Mortimer nodded. “Looks like you’re going out. That girl you mentioned, the singer.”

“Yeah, we’re having dinner before she comes here.”

Mortimer smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” he said, “that’s real nice, Abe.” He cleared his throat slightly. “So, this girl, you said some guy was after her.”

“That’s what she’s afraid of, yeah.”

“But he ain’t found her, right?”

“Not yet, I guess.”

“And he ain’t likely to, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“What I mean is, you probably don’t need that gun I give you, right?”

Abe turned to him slowly, his eyes suddenly very intent. Morty knew he’d rushed it, tipped Abe off somehow.

“What are you getting at, Morty?” Abe asked.

Mortimer shrugged. “Nothing, except I was thinking it maybe ain’t such a good idea, you having that gun.”

Abe’s gaze intensified. “Why’s that?”

“No reason in particular.”

Abe drew in a slow breath. “So, what brought about this change of heart, Morty?”

“Nothing,” Mortimer answered quickly.

Abe’s eyes were like probing needles. “You know something, Morty?”

Mortimer tried for a dismissive chuckle. “Me? No, I don’t know nothing.”

The needles sank deeper. “It’s what you do, though, isn’t it?” Abe asked. “Find people?”

Mortimer nodded, now regretting that he’d ever told Abe anything about his work, even though the things he’d told him were mostly lies, or at best exaggerations.

“Have I got a problem, Morty?”

“Problem, no.”

“How about Samantha?”

“Who?”

“The singer.”

“Oh,” Mortimer stammered. “No, she ain’t got no problem.”

“So it’s like you said, probably nobody’s going to show up, right?”

“Right,” Mortimer said, though he could tell Abe hadn’t bought it.

“So since nobody’s likely to find Samantha,” Abe said, “no harm in me keeping the gun. ’Cause there won’t be any reason for me to use it, right?”

Mortimer said nothing, and he could tell that this only deepened the grave suspicion he saw in Abe’s eyes.

“Right?” Abe asked pointedly.

Mortimer nodded heavily, giving in. Jesus Christ, he thought, what do I do now?