by Max McCoy
Upward just polished the bar, like he didn’t hear me.
“Who pays your wages, Sammy?”
I knew who. It was Crayfish. He owned the Last Chance, but didn’t want no one to know it, so the name on the papers was Rosie, but she didn’t have a dime more than she could make on her back, and someone put up a wad to buy this place, and it was Crayfish.”
“I get my pay from Rosie,” he said.
I leaned across the bar and grabbed a handful of apron and pulled him tight. I seen his hands clawing for that Greener under the bar, so I just tugged him tighter.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Who owns this joint?”
“Never did figure that out,” he replied.
“You’re a card, Upward. I think I’m going to look a lot closer at this here triple murder. Somebody shot three of Ruble’s hands, and maybe it was King Bragg, just like the court says it was, but maybe it was someone else; you know who and ain’t saying. And I’m poking around a little more until I got a better handle on it. This ain’t makin’ me happy.”
Upward, he didn’t like that none.
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Copyright © 2010 Max McCoy
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3186-3