Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery
Page 18
That solved the first problem. I knew where he was.
Now for the hard part.
“Rafferty?” he yelled. “Back off now or I’ll blow Skinny Mama’s head open like a punkin, man.”
“She’d never know it, Turk. You killed her a long time ago.”
He kept yelling about what he would do if I didn’t let him leave the house. I used the noise as cover and scuttled down the hallway. I passed other bedrooms and baths, then stopped outside the end room, where he was holed up.
He quit yelling. I waited and listened.
I wondered how to enter the room. The book—for those who believe in the book—says you should run four or five steps into the room, turn and fire. The theory is based on the trapped man expecting you to stick your head around the corner.
That method works most of the time. Every once in a while, though, you run across someone who read the same book.
“Tough luck, asshole,” Turk’s voice said softly.
Behind me?
Oh my sweet Christ, he came out through an adjoining bathroom!
I turned just enough to see his sweating bald head and sneering grin and the matt-finished M16 in his hands.
Then a yellow egg flew out of the forgotten bathroom and smashed into Turk’s face. Blood sprayed from his nose. He nearly dropped the M16 as he pulled the trigger.
The noise in the narrow space was loud, hurtful to the ears. Something like a brick slapped my right ankle—all pressure, no pain—and I fell on my right side with my head toward Turk.
He had dropped to his knees. The egg hit him again, retreated on a white tail, and came back to bounce off the back of his head with a dull thonk!
The muzzle of Turk’s M16 rested on the light-colored carpet. His head lolled. He leaned forward over the gun like a Muslim at prayer. I could have touched his cheek.
Turk raised his head, shook it, and focused on me. He lifted his torso slightly, hugged the M16 to his chest, and ponderously swayed to point the muzzle at my stomach. His right hand scrabbled like a demented spider copulating with the M16 handgrip and trigger.
I stretched as far as I could, put the .45 against his neck, and pulled the trigger twice.
The blasts reverberated through the house. A painting fell off the wall. It was small, hardly bigger than a large index card. There was a lot of blue in it.
Vivian stepped out of the bathroom. She had a thick white cord wrapped around one wrist. It was a loop, with a cake of yellow soap formed around one end.
I looked up at her and tried to grin. “I get it,” I croaked. “The old soap-on-a-rope trick.”
She let the loop slide off her wrist and held out her hands to me. I took them and she helped me sit up, then lean against the wall.
The change of position started a rush of pain in my ankle. There wasn’t much blood yet, but the holes did not look promising.
I began to sweat like a pig. At the same time, I felt cold and clammy.
Vivian knelt on the floor beside me. She put her hands on my cheeks and turned my head to face her. She peered intently at me from six inches away. There was something in her eyes I had not seen before.
“I know you,” she said. “Hi, Mr Rafferty.”
Then she sat facing me and took my trembling sweaty hands in her cool dry ones.
We were sitting like that, both of us crying softly, when the first uniformed squad arrived.
Ready for more Rafferty?
Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Rafferty P.I. mystery, LAST SEEN ALIVE.
Prologue - Last Seen Alive
Excerpt from an oral argument to the Hargrave County Grand Jury by L. Eubank, County Attorney.
… time he cut her, she must have seen it coming and held up her right arm to block the blow, like this.
As you heard Sheriff Surbitter testify, the weapon was probably a hunting knife. It has not yet been located, but we know it was very sharp. The medical report says it completely severed the “supinator longus.” That’s the medical term for this long muscle here, under my forearm.
Take a few moments now and imagine the terror that poor woman felt when she realized what was going to happen to her.
After that first slash, he must have gone berserk. We believe most of the minor cuts were made then, as he waved the knife around in a random, senseless way, slashing at the terrified woman.
We believe she fell down during that part of the attack, still alive but bleeding heavily.
Next he killed her.
The medical report says the blade entered, um, here it is, “… through the rectus abdominis. A hard object driven with at least moderate force, possibly the hilt of the murder weapon, fractured the xiphoid process. The wound is indicative of a blade 2.5 to 3.5 centimeters in width and a minimum of 16.3 centimeters in length. The blade penetrated the aortal arch one centimeter below the left common carotid artery before exiting between the third and fourth ribs two centimeters left of—”
Forget the fancy words, ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury. He stabbed her in the center of her chest. The blade went clear through her. That’s what the fancy words mean.
And she died within a few minutes. She died alone, murdered by a man she had mistakenly trusted.
He didn’t stop then; oh, no, not this animal. After she was dead, he took that terrible knife, and he—but you’ve seen the medical report and heard the examiner and the police. You know what he did, and you know the kind of person he would have to be to do such a thing. So I’ll stop now.
Except for one further comment.
I want to remind you I’ve been your county attorney for eight years now. And you can believe me when I say I cannot remember when it was so important that a grand jury return an indictment.
Ladies and gentlemen, give me that indictment, and I’ll put this monster where he belongs.
Thank you.
Chapter 1 - Last Seen Alive
Dallas was booming. Everybody said so. Trouble was, that year a shopping center boomed on top of the house I was renting.
All in all, there were seventeen houses affected. Most of us had long-term leases, but minor details like that don’t bother Texas developers. They learned a long time ago how to solve a problem—throw money at it.
Two boomers came to see me: my landlord and a young guy from the development company. Dom Van Horn, my landlord, was a sandy-haired Dutchman. He had a copy of my lease in a manila folder. Robertson, the trainee robber baron, was young and sleek in a three-piece suit. He had a hand-tooled leather attaché case.
I had an attaché case, too. Mine was scuffed vinyl.
“Now then, Mr uh, Rafferty,” Robertson said, “I have good news for you.” He clicked open his fancy case and smiled at me over the lid.
I opened my case, too, and took out a .45 caliber Colt automatic pistol. I fieldstripped the Colt, and began to wipe the pieces with an oily rag.
Van Horn sighed.
Robertson swallowed. He nodded at the gun. “Must you do that right now?”
“Yeah,” I said. “If you don’t clean them after they’re fired, the powder residue corrodes the barrel.”
Van Horn sighed again.
Robertson tried to ignore my firearm husbandry while he outlined how nice it would be if I would accept a “significant honorarium” and withdraw from my existing lease. He really said that. “Significant honorarium,” for God’s sake. He also said “moving ahead with the times” and “cutting edge of marketing progress.” By the time he finished, the Colt was reassembled and I was down to polishing bullets.
It was hard to keep a straight face.
“Um, are you a gunsmith, Mr Rafferty?" Robertson asked.
“He’s a wiseass,” Van Horn said. He looked at me and sighed a third time. “Come on, Rafferty. Take the money.”
We stared at each other awhile, then I put the Colt down and I took the money and I signed away the rest of my lease. Would I blunt the cutting edge of marketing progress?
I
walked outside with them. Robertson opened the driver’s door of a new Buick and tossed his attaché case inside. He seemed anxious to leave.
I said, “You will be demolishing the house, right?”
Now Robertson sighed. “Of course! I’ve already explained—“
“I only asked,” I said, “because I misplaced a grenade in there last week. Tell your wrecking crew to be real careful, okay?”
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W. Glenn Duncan, and
W. Glenn Duncan Jr.
Praise for W. Glenn Duncan’s Rafferty P.I.
“At first sniff, it may smell a like Spenser with a cowboy hat, but take a good whiff: W. Glenn Duncan's Dallas, Texas private eye RAFFERTY was actually a blast of fresh air in what was rapidly becoming a glut of sensitive, soul-searching, overly politically-correct cookie cutter P.I.s … of course, it helps that Dallas ain't Boston.
Kevin Burton Smith
“Duncan truly captured the pure essence of the definitive smart-ass P.I. in his character Rafferty. Take part Sam Spade with a little Mike Hammer, mix in some Spenser and you have an awesome character.”
Cliff Fausset
“I have all of the Rafferty titles in my collection. I've gotten rid of a lot of stuff over the years, but the Rafferty books are a mainstay. I think they're terrific!”
Paul Bishop
“Rafferty tends to play dirty, boasting at one point that he ‘hasn't fought fair in twenty years.’ No brainiac, his chief M.O. seems to be to stir things up, and then see what happens. And he tends to be pretty stubborn, as well. ‘I often ignore what people tell me to do,’ he says. Like, no kidding. And that's part of the fun.
“Rafferty: Fatal Sisters won a 1991 Shamus for Best Paperback Original. All in all, an entertaining, and very highly recommended series.”
ThrillingDetective.com
“I don't know much about W. Glenn Duncan except that he wrote a dandy private-eye series set in Dallas, Texas … and I think of them as throwbacks to the kind of P.I. Books … in the '50s, except influenced as much by Robert B. Parker as by Spillane.”
Bill Crider
Wrong Place, Wrong Time - “Rafferty finds himself in deep trouble when a bounty hunter hires him to help nab a perp. It all turns out to be a hit. Rafferty wants to hunt down the bounty hunter, only to find that hunting can work both ways.
“Meanwhile, he is also hired to stop kids from harassing an old man, which turns out to be a lot tougher than he thinks.
“Kept me interested the whole time. 4 stars”
Glen (Goodreads)
“At first blush, the framework for Rafferty appears to be yet another Spenser clone (Cowboy, Rafferty’s semi-sociopathic partner channeling Hawk; Hilda, Rafferty’s significant other who is a less irritating version of Susan Silverman; an equal number of wisecracks, fists, and bullets), but it’s quickly apparent in the first few pages of the series, Rafferty and company are in a class of their own.”
Paul Bishop
Also by W. Glenn Duncan
Rafferty P.I. Series
Last Seen Alive
Poor Dead Cricket
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Cannon’s Mouth
Fatal Sisters
About the Author
W. Glenn Duncan, a former newsman, politician, and professional pilot, has lived in Iowa, Ohio, Oregon, Florida, Texas and California. He now lives with his wife in Australia. His novels in the RAFFERTY P.I. Series are: Rafferty’s Rules, Last Seen Alive, Poor Dead Cricket, Wrong Place Wrong Time, Cannon’s Mouth and Fatal Sisters.
Fatal Sisters won a Shamus Award for Best Paperback original.
The RAFFERTY P.I. Series is continued by his son, writing as W. Glenn Duncan Jr., starting with the release of False Gods in 2017.
Get in touch. We’d love to hear from you
RaffertyPI.com
bill@raffertypi.com
For Val, who never stopped believing it would happen.
Rafferty’s Rules
Copyright © W. Glenn Duncan 1987
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
First published in the United States in 1987 by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
This edition published in 2017 by d squared publishing.
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-6480370-0-2
P’back ISBN: 978-0-6480370-1-9
For enquiries regarding this book, please email: enquiry@raffertypi.com
Cover Design by Jessica Bell