The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(17)

Lewis looked at her now. The force of his full attention was tangible, like a hot desert wind. Dinah didn’t waver.

He said, “First place, girl, you don’t know me. Could be you never really did.” He began to reassemble the shotgun without looking at his hands. There was no trick to it, just practice. Sometimes, to calm himself when the static was particularly bad, Peter would close his eyes and field-strip his 1911.

“Second place,” said Lewis, “all the man did was tend bar. The only money he moved went in the till. I wouldn’t have asked him to do anything else. And he wouldn’t have done it.” He locked the barrel assembly into the stock, then thumbed massive shells into the magazine. “You knew anything about either of us, you’d have known that.”

Dinah stared him full in the face, deciding for herself.

“All right,” she said finally. “If James wasn’t carrying or keeping anything for you, then I have a problem. Someone left some money under my porch.”

The slight smile tilted Lewis’s mouth again. He spun the shotgun in one hand like a majorette’s baton. It was a show-off move. His hand wasn’t in full contact with the weapon. Of course, Peter was six long steps away, and Lewis could finish the spin and shoot Peter in the chest twice in the time it took him to close the distance. If it was loaded with buckshot, it would literally cut Peter in half.

Lewis turned to the man in the Miller High Life shirt. “Nino. Can you think of anything?”

“It ain’t from Shorty’s. That place is squared up and nailed down. I know everything comes in and goes out.” He assessed Dinah from under raised eyebrows. The beer keg might be smarter than he looked. “How much we talking about?”

Time to step in. The static was rising, although he wasn’t sweating yet. Peter said, “Dinah, it’s not their money. We should go.”

Lewis moved just slightly.

Just enough to change the geometry between himself and Peter. Like that mountain lion getting its hind feet set right in the dirt before leaping on the deer.

He didn’t look like a show-off anymore.

Peter was grateful for the .45 shoved into the back of his pants.

He put his hands on his hips to get them closer to the butt. Not that it would be helpful to take out a gun right then. Nor was there any guarantee that he would be fast enough to be useful. Lewis’s trick with the shotgun had allowed him to see how very quick Lewis was with his hands. Maybe that was the point.

Lewis tilted his chin at Peter while looking at Dinah. “Who’s this?”

“This is Lieutenant Ash,” she said. “A friend of James’s from the Marines. He’s part of a government program, doing some repairs on the house.”

Appearing to notice Peter for the first time, Lewis looked him up and down, taking in the sawdust on his pants, the scuffed boots, the brown work jacket.

“Jarhead,” he said.

It was a term of pride for some Marines. From anyone else it was an insult. Especially the way Lewis said it.

Peter smiled pleasantly and leaned toward Dinah. “Some guys get jealous,” he explained. “Not everybody makes the grade.”

Nino said, “It sounds like he might want the money for himself.”

Dinah said, “Lieutenant Ash found the money. I wasn’t home. He could have kept it. Instead he brought it to me.”

Nino raised one hand, as if asking permission to speak. “The money,” he said. “How much was it again?”

Now Peter knew why Dinah wanted to leave the money in the truck. He shifted his hands under the waistband of his work jacket. He was left-handed. He mentally rehearsed the movement he would have to make to clear the .45. But he kept his eyes on Lewis.

“I didn’t say,” said Dinah, cool as a cucumber. “Nor will I. Perhaps it’s time for us to leave.”

“Perhaps y’all should give the money to us,” said the lean barefoot man from Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. He flexed his feet on the floorboards. “We could invest it for you. For your retirement. Is it in your pocket or in your car?”

If they thought it might be in her pocket, they really didn’t know how much money it was. The four hundred K took up a good part of that grocery bag, even neatly banded.

Lewis didn’t weigh in. Maybe he was waiting to see what happened. Peter began to slide his left hand toward his back. He’d flip the safety as he raised the pistol.

Nino’s weight was on his toes, but he was a few steps away. The barefoot man was no closer, but if he led with his feet he’d have a longer reach and get there first. Regardless of how it happened, there would be no confusion between Nino and the barefoot man. They’d done this before.

Peter said, “Hey. Your accent is driving me nuts. I can’t pin it down. Where the hell are you from? Texas or Oklahoma?”

The lean man looked at Peter like he’d grown a third eye. “I’m from Norman, originally. But I grew up near Midland.”

Nino said, “Jarhead, shut the fuck up. Ray, stay focused. Honey, give us the money. Or else we take it.”

“I beg your goddamn pardon,” said Dinah, “but you may not.”

Nino laughed. Barefoot Ray from Oklahoma smiled slightly and began to bend his knees. Peter put his hand on the .45.

“No,” said Lewis.

He spoke clearly, but not loudly.