Rumble Tumble Read Free

beating her as much and her limp was better. Brett had tried to talk her out of the life, had offered to have us come get her, but she didn’t want out, or didn’t know how to get out, or it was some kind of stubborn pride thing. It was hard to say. Frankly, I tried not to involve myself unless Brett involved me.
    “What’s the score?” I asked.
    “There’s a man in a motel wants to talk to me about her. He called this morning. Says she’s in trouble and I should talk to him.”
    “He didn’t tell you what about over the phone?”
    Brett shook her head. “He wants money.”
    “To tell you what kind of trouble she’s in?”
    “I’m supposed to go over there around one o’clock and bring five hundred dollars. I told him I had to have someone drive me. I didn’t want to go there by myself.”
    “That’s a smart idea.”
    “He said that was okay.”
    “I don’t like the sound of it,” I said.
    “Neither do I, but he said Tillie was in deep shit and I ought to know about it. He said Tillie paid him some to tell me she was and that I’m supposed to pay him some before he tells me what the problem is, and he said if cops come he won’t tell me anything and everything is off. But I come with one person and five hundred dollars, he’ll tell me what I need to know.”
    “A real Good Samaritan.”
    “I got a gun,” Brett said. “I can use it, and it’s legal. But I still don’t like going over there by myself, gun or not. Me with all that money. I don’t know he’s got someone with him or not. But him talking about Tillie like he knows her, I got to go see.”
    “No problem. We’ll both go.”

3
    My wreck was iffy just driving into town, so we went in Brett’s blue Plymouth Fury. Like me, she had recently traded cars, and though this one was many years old and not exactly a road racer, it had been regularly serviced, and could get up to seventy miles an hour without the assistance of a tow truck. It’s also nice to be driven around town by a good-looking redhead, even if you’re on a bicycle built for two.
    On the way over to the motel the lovebugs pelleted the windshield and collected beneath the motionless wipers like dead soldiers in trenches, left greasy yellow and green spots all over the glass.
    We got to the LaBorde Motor Inn about ten minutes before one and parked in front of a row of doors. I had brought the pistol from my glove box, and I stuck it under my shirt against my spine.
    Brett has a thigh holster, and she wore a skirt so she could wear the holster and the snub-nose .38 she owns. It’s not that she goes around wearing a thigh holster and a .38, but recent events had led to this, and she has a license. In Texas, with the right training and certification you’re allowed to carry a concealed handgun. It’s a law Leonard loves and I hate, but I’m a hypocrite, because I keep a revolver in my glove box, and from time to time on my person. I’m even more of a hypocrite because, unlike Brett, I never bothered to get a license.
    We walked to the metal stairs, went up and found the number the caller had given Brett, and knocked. Thirty seconds didn’t pass before the door opened and a face showed over the chain inside the door, and it was some face. It looked like first base after a hot season in the Astrodome: pocked and beaten and not too clean. He stuck the face out enough so I could see his nose had been broken and some teeth with it, and recently. Behind the face I could see a body that looked as if it ought to be used to hold up something heavy. He took the chain off for a better look at us, and we got a better look at him. He wore a dirty white dress shirt and black pants with gray pinstripes and shiny black dress shoes, except for the toe tips, which looked to have been dipped in shit.
    “You Brett?” he said.
    Brett nodded.
    “We told you not to bring nobody,” he said.
    “You, or whoever I spoke to, said I could have someone drive me,” Brett said.
    “We thought