Blowback (The Nameless Detective) Read Free Page B

Angela?”
    Cody seemed amused. “How would I know, Jerrold?”
    “You haven't seen her, is that it?”
    “Not since yesterday.”
    “You're a goddamn liar.”
    “Hey, now wait a minute …”
    Harry came up, glanced at me in a disturbed way, and put a hand on this Jerrold's arm. “Take it slow, Ray. Cool down.”
    “The hell I will. This—”
    “Ray, ease off now.”
    “Big man,” Cody said to Jerrold. He tried to curl his Up like Bogart used to do, but it only came out looking silly. “If you don't trust your wife, or me, or any of the others, why'd you go off hunting or whatever with Burroughs? You hand out plenty of freedom, and then you come in playing the outraged husband—”
    Jerrold said “You son of a bitch!” and took a step forward with his free hand balling into a fist. Cody flinched, backed away, but Harry tightened his fingers on Jerrold's arm and pulled him back.
    “Let it alone, Ray, come on. Go on over to your cabin, Angela's probably there waiting for you.”
    Jerrold stood there with those half-wild eyes cutting away at Cody's face like sharp-pointed sticks. Cody took it all right now, but the amusement was gone and his eyes were wary. I was afraid for a moment that Jerrold would erupt again; you don't like to see a man that strung out, that near some kind of breaking point—and you particularly don't like to see it when he's carrying a shotgun that is sure to be loaded.
    But nothing happened. Fifteen or twenty seconds passed, and then Jerrold said “You'll get yours, boy,” and wheeled away and stalked down along the lakeshore.
    Harry said to Cody, “You'd better not push him. You can push a man just so far.”
    “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “You know what it means.”
    “Why don't you mind your own business?”
    “What happens at this camp is my business.”
    “Listen,” Cody said, “this Angela is nothing but a prickteaser. You think I'm going to mess with a fox like that?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Shit. Why doesn't Jerrold pick on one of the other dudes—Bascomb, for instance? She's always after him to paint her.”
    “Maybe Bascomb doesn't look or act like a guy on the make.”
    “Shit,” the kid said again, a little petulantly this time. Then, abruptly, he went off around the front of the cabin.
    Harry gave me a faint wry smile, and we shook hands. Compact and sinuous, he had pale green eyes and a long jaw and sun-weathered features, and he was wearing his standard all-season outfit: khakis and an army fatigue cap over clipped brown hair. The weapon he was carrying was an eight-shot .22 rifle.
    “Good to see you, buddy,” he said. “I'm just sorry it has to be under these circumstances. You been waiting long?”
    “Fifteen minutes,” I said. “Is Jerrold the problem you've been having?”
    “Both of the Jerrolds. And Cody. And maybe one or more of the other three guys I've got staying here.”
    Over in the parking circle a car engine started up, revved a couple of times, roared at seven or eight thousand rpms for several seconds, and settled into a throbbing rumble. The Italian sports job, I thought. It and Cody were a natural for each other. The engine howled again, tires spun gravel, and away he went up the county road.
    Harry took off his cap and sighed and rubbed sweat from his forehead with the back of his free hand. “I've got a fan inside. Why don't we get a couple of beers and talk in there.”
    “Suits me,” I said.
    Harry's cabin was essentially one large room with exposed crisscrossing beams, unvarnished knotty-pine walls, and a pair of curtained-off alcoves that served as bedroom and bathroom. It had a massive fieldstone fireplace, a handmade gun rack that contained an old Marlin lever-action rifle and a Mossberg .410-gauge pump gun, a floor-to-ceiling cabinet filled with fishing gear and an assortment of intricate flies I knew he had tied himself, orderly stacks of outdoor books and magazines on a handmade bookshelf, an old mohair sofa, two