High Noon Read Free Page A

pressing charges?”
    “For what?”
    “For what he nipped out of the till.”
    “No.” Duncan lowered himself to the arm of a chair. Closed his eyes. “Christ, no.”
    “How much was it?”
    “A couple thousand, a little more, I guess. It doesn’t matter.”
    “It does. He needs to pay it back, for his own self-respect. If you want to help him, you’ll work that out.”
    “Sure. Fine.”
    “You’re the landlord, too?”
    “Yeah. Sort of.”
    Phoebe lifted her brows. “Aren’t you the busy one? Can you manage to float the rent another month?”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
    “Good.”
    “Look…all I got was Phoebe.”
    “Mac Namara. Lieutenant Mac Namara.”
    “I like Joe. I don’t want him to go to jail.”
    A good guy, Joe had said. He’d likely been right on that one. “I appreciate that, but there are consequences. Paying them will help him. He was crying for help, and now he’ll get it. If you know where he owes the five thousand, he needs to make that right, too.”
    “I didn’t know he was gambling.”
    This time she let out a short laugh. “You own a sports bar, but don’t know there’s gambling going on in it?”
    His back went up. His gut was already in knots, and now his back went up. “Hey, listen, Slam Dunc’s a friendly place, not a mob den. I didn’t know he had a problem, or he wouldn’t have been working the stick there. Some of this was my fault, but—”
    “No. No.” She held up a hand, rubbed the cold bottle over her damp forehead. “I’m hot, I’m irritable. And none of this was your fault. I apologize. Circumstances put him out there on that ledge, and he’s responsible for those circumstances and the choices he made. Do you know where to find his wife?”
    “I expect she’s at the parade like everyone else in Savannah, except us.”
    “Do you know where she’s living?”
    “Not exactly, but I gave your captain a couple numbers. Friends of theirs.”
    “We’ll find her. Are you going to be all right now?”
    “Well, I’m not going to go up on the roof and jump.” He let out a long sigh, shook his head. “Can I buy you a drink, Phoebe?”
    She held up the bottle of water. “You already did.”
    “I could do better.”
    Hmm, a quick flicker of charm now, she noted. “This’ll be fine. You should go on home, Mr. Swift.”
    “Duncan.”
    “Mmm-hmm.” She gave him a fleeting smile, then picked up her discarded jacket.
    “Hey, Phoebe.” He made a bead for the door when she walked out. “Can I call you if I feel suicidal?”
    “Try the hotline,” she called back without looking around. “Odds are they’ll talk you down.”
    He moved to the rail to look down at her. Purpose, he thought again. He could acquire a strong taste for a woman with purpose.
    Then he sat on the step, pulled out his phone. He called his closest friend—who was also his lawyer—to sweet-talk him into representing a suicidal bartender with a gambling addiction.
     
    From the second-floor balcony, Phoebe watched the green sheepdog prance. He seemed pretty damn proud of himself, matching his steps to the fife and drum played by a trio of leprechauns.
    Joe was alive, and while she’d missed the curtain, she was right where she wanted to be for the second act.
    Not such a crappy way to spend St. Patrick’s Day after all.
    Beside her, Phoebe’s seven-year-old daughter bounced in her bright green sneakers. Carly had campaigned long and hard for those shoes, Phoebe recalled, whittling away at any and all resistance to the price or impracticality.
    She wore them with green cropped pants with tiny dark pink dots, and a green shirt with pink piping—also a long and arduous campaign by the pint-sized fashion diva. But Phoebe had to admit, the kid looked unbelievably sweet.
    Carly’s sunset red hair came down from her grandmother, through her mother. The curls came from her grandmother, too—skipping a generation there, as Phoebe’s was straight as a stick. The brilliant and bright