Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) Read Free

no. If you’da done that, Loon Country woulda been history and maybe you and me coulda worked out some deal so I wouldn’t have to move.”
    “Maybe,” said Gun. He felt fatigued, too tired to be explaining himself to Bowser Devitz. Or anyone else.
    “Fella who’d turn nasty like that to his neighbors
    oughta have his ass kicked,” Bowser went on. “I’m here to kick yours.”
    “Come in or go home, Bowser.” Gun started past him toward the house.
    It took a while to get there. As Gun brushed past him, Bowser turned and funneled his full three hun dred pounds into one fist, aimed low. It connected with the pad of unprepared muscle covering Gun’s kidney. It pushed the breath from him and made his legs forget to stand. Gun went to his knees.
    “Not so damn tough now, are you, Pedersen?” Bowser stood off to Gun’s right, living proof of the strength of fat men. “What happened? Gone soft since you quit ball? Only folks you can push around now’s a sick old man.”
    Gun brought air into his body, experimentally, letting it fill his lungs. His kidneys quivered. He felt sorry for Bowser, but it wouldn’t do to let this go on.
    “I gotta tell you, Pedersen. The old man this morning, he got up early and made a big batch of oatmeal.” Bowser was waiting for Gun to get back on his feet. He still looked mad. “A great big batch of oatmeal, and I said to him, Geez, Pop, it’s just you and me, we’re never gonna eat all that.”
    Gun got up. There were green stains on the knees of his longjohns.
    “And Pop says, he’s laughing now, he says, It ain’t for us, boy, it’s for Roxie, she loves it. Roxie! Damn, Pedersen, Roxie was this old sow we raised for ham back before I went over the pond. Pop sold her for butchering while I was over there. I remember the letter.” Bowser’s big fists came up as he talked; they shook slightly in front of his chest.
    Gun’s legs were steadier now and his kidneys felt altered but still whole. He said, “Things are that bad.”
    “Things have been bad for years now. But the sale,
    Pedersen, that finished it. Pop blinks his eyes and another ten years is gone. He thinks I’m a high school kid. He thinks Ma’s just gone into town.”
    “Let’s go inside,” Gun said cautiously.
    “Bastard!” said Bowser. His lead blow was a right hand square with Gun’s breastbone. It filled Gun’s lungs with quicksand and he stepped back, twice. Bowser plowed ahead with a windmill left at the solar plexus, but Gun twisted his torso and the blow skipped off. There was a time, Gun realized, when even that first, kidney-burning punch would never have landed; some animal nerve would have warned him, some movement in the air, and his body would have acted without him. Now that nerve seemed dormant, his defensive reflex tired. And Bowser was just winding up.
    “Too old for this, are you, Pedersen?” Bowser said. He moved in with another roundhouse. Gun ducked this one and Bowser slipped on the dewy grass, thumping down butt first next to a dismembered old lawn mower Gun had been trying to fix. Bowser struggled up with the ease of a land-bound hippo, his gut plunging. “So you’re a ducker,” he said. “Shouldn’t surprise me. You ducked Loon Country, sure as hell.” Bowser moved more carefully now, planting his feet, waving his fists like an old-time boxer. Gun stood with his arms slightly bent in front of him. He told himself to block those fists. No more, and certainly no less. Couldn’t blame Bowser for feeling this way, after all. It was just too bad he was so damn strong. Block the fists, Gun told himself, and when the boy’s tired he’ll go on home.
    Fist number one came almost too quick. A left jab, and Gun’s right palm barely deflected it in time to save his nose. Come on, Gun thought. You did this enough on the ball field. Bowser threw another jab, and again Gun slapped it away. Another jab missed
    Gun’s chin by half a foot. Bowser was panting harder now, frustrated