Sam marched straight through to the
back kitchen, kicking open the door: table; two unmatched chairs; dark, dirty
wallpaper; the need for electric light even in daylight. The ogre man was near
the back door. He withdrew warily as Sam entered.
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing dipshit?”
Sam pulled out his gun and aimed it
at the man’s head. “Shut up.”
Panic then fear in his ugly face, a
glance at the door.
“Sit down,” said Sam. “Quickly!” He
circled the big man, driving him toward the table. “I said quickly!” He smacked
the barrel of his pistol against the man’s head, not hard enough to damage the
gun or knock him out. The man struggled to sit down. Sam leaned against the
table in front of him. “What’s your name?”
“Eric Jameson. I’m the landlord.”
Pouting childish voice now that he no longer had control. He was sweating.
“What do you want here? Money?”
“No. I’m looking for Jack Catholic.
He just left in a taxi.” Jameson blinked at him, staring.
“He’s moved out. He’s taken all his
shit with him.”
Sam leaned closer, so close now that
the reek and heat of this man was coming up against his face. “Where’s he gone?”
Jameson squirmed in the chair,
apparently only wrestling for a second before his sense of self-preservation
overtook his loyalty. “The airport. America. I don’t know where. He’s inherited
a ton of cash from some guy. He’s gone to collect it.”
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