Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

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by Malcolm Shuman


  “Yeah,” he said, and gave me his hand. “I know that. Thanks, Micah. I’m sorry if I said things to you.”

  I looked away. “Don’t worry about it, Cal.”

  “Come see me when I get out of this place.”

  “Sure.”

  I went out the door, feeling ashamed, because I’d wondered about him, and it would take more than just dismissal of charges to put things back the way they were. It was the ancient conflict between law and equity, what was legal and what was fair. The law had been upheld, but an honest man had been deprived of his livelihood, while a crook named Morris Frazier continued to cheat customers at his filling station on Esplanade, a shyster lawyer named Guidry stayed fat and happy sucking the teats of crooked judges and clients, and the Sam DeNovas of the world went on welshing on deals.

  I was so absorbed in my thoughts that when I turned a corner in the corridor I didn’t see the other man until his arm reached out and caught me.

  “I hear there was some excitement,” the Reverend Condon said, a bodyguard standing comfortably close behind him.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Come on, Dunn, I got ears everywhere, especially on the New Orleans police force. I hear a fellow name of Bonchaud did it.”

  “Then you heard right,” I said. “Look, Condon, you helped me out at the wineshop; I figure that squares us, after the beating I took.”

  Condon rumbled a deep laugh. “Not hardly, Ace. You had that beatin’ comin’. On the other hand, I was wrong to try to set you up.”

  “Well, write a letter to the newspaper,” I said. “Nobody’ll read it, but I figure everybody’s forgotten that story, anyhow. You know how it is with TV: a half-life of three hours.”

  The laugh again. “I got to do more than that. Matter of my credibility, understand?”

  I started away from him but turned back as an idea struck me. “You really want to make amends?” I asked.

  “Within reason.”

  “There’s a strung-out white boy named Villiere who’s fixing to take a dive. Won’t come up again for five or six years. I figure he’s going to need every cent he can come up with for his defense.”

  “So?”

  “He owns a garage off Esplanade. You may know the place.”

  The minister’s eyes narrowed. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “I figure he’ll dump it for a song. I also figure it would be a good deal for somebody to pick up cheap. Especially since there’s a paying tenant. Tenant may have to pay a little less than he’s paying now; business reverses and all. But the property will go for next to nothing. I’d call it a damn good investment.”

  Condon snorted. “You want me to bankroll that old redneck?”

  “Let’s call it an experiment in brotherhood,” I said. “Anyway, you asked, so I told you what you could do.”

  Condon turned to his bodyguard. “This white boy has got some balls.” He seemed to consider for a second; then he nodded.

  “Okay. We’ll see what happens. But I ain’t taking any shit.”

  “I think the pair of you will get along just fine,” I said.

  I went out into the parking lot, feeling a little better. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. But I’d done what I could, what I had to. Because my own relationship with Cal had subtly altered, and it might never be the same again.

  I thought about it all the way back on the causeway; how relationships change, not because of anything either of the parties do, but because of events.

  When I reached Katherine’s house, I sat in front for a long time trying to decide what I would say. But after a while I realized that there were no words, just as there hadn’t been anything for Cal and me to say to each other about what had happened.

  Finally I made myself open the door and go slowly up the walk to the door and knock. It was a long time before it opened, and then I was staring into her eyes and she was standing back a little, as if she weren’t sure what to do.

  “You didn’t have your key?” she asked finally, her voice trembling.

  “I guess I left it,” I lied.

  She stood aside and I came in and collapsed onto the sofa.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  “It’s over,” I said. “Finally.”

  “You look like hell. You have soot on your face. Have you been in a fire?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll get you a drink. Have you had anything to eat?”

  I shook my head. “I just want to sleep for a couple of years.”

  “Then I’ll draw a bath.”

  “Maybe I ought to go back to my own place,” I said.

  She halted, the whiskey decanter in her hand. “It isn’t necessary. Unless you want to.”

  I felt like telling her that what I wanted was for none of it to have happened, but it wouldn’t have done any good, so I didn’t say anything.

  She handed me the drink and stood watching, just out of reach. The whiskey felt good, a slow burn that loosened my muscles and brought me to the edge of sleep.

  Katherine reached forward, taking the glass out of my hand before I could drop it onto the carpet. She sat down beside me.

  “Micah, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I don’t blame you. I really don’t. But you’ve got to understand: I’m not just one person, I’m two. Part of me is the Katherine you know who loves you, but the other part is Scott’s mother. That can’t ever change. And it may be the part that’s dominant. You may have to learn to live with that.”

  I forced my mind back into focus and nodded. “I know,” I said.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know if I can live with it or not.”

  “An honest answer,” she said.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I told her. “Things will look better then.”

  “Yes,” she said. I felt my head going back against the cushion of the sofa, and then I felt her removing my shoes.

  Yes, I told myself as I drifted into comforting sleep. There would be time for everything tomorrow.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1991 by Malcolm K. Shuman

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-5022-0

  This 2014 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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