Hunter's Moon by Chuck Logan (the false prince series txt) 📗

cold, he stepped off the elevator. A female reporter stood waiting for the door to open. Suzanne was married now with two kids and had filled out in an appealing way, but she still had those great fucked-out eyes…

“Ye God,” she raised her hand to her mouth, seeing his face.

“Trick or treat,” said Harry.

“Nice suit,” she said as he went by. People saw him and froze.

Ha, he thought. The Story Walks Among You.

He stopped at the bulletin board and looked around. Franky Murphy moved across the newsroom, a mobile zit in a tableau of statues.

Someone came up behind and took him by the arm. Arnie Cummings.

“Harry, there you are…” Arnie paused, sniffed. “Christ, you smell like a gin mill. This is a hell of a time to fall off the wagon.”

Murphy danced into Harry’s vision. “You set me up, you sonofabitch.”

“Two things I hate, Franky. A liar and a thief.”

Franky pointed a narrow finger. “I’ll get you, fucker, just wait.”

So much for the ounce-an-hour theory. Squirt one shot into the swamp, add a dash of hassle, and the shadowy figure bubbles up from its enchanted sleep. “Why wait?” Harry grinned, poised on the balls of his feet, ready for something.

HUNTER’S MOON / 147

The pressure of Arnie’s hand turned rough, pulling him away from Murphy.

Harry bristled. “Don’t mess with me, Arnie.”

“You’ll blow this if you talk to the boss smelling like booze.”

“Hands off!”

People standing, at desks, in midstride, all eyes glued to the tugging match at the bulletin board.

Arnie pulled him toward the lobby. “C’mon. Let’s take a walk.

There’s time. Get you something…”

Harry broke Arnie’s grip with a sharp, combat-speed arc of his forearm. Arnie tottered back, off balance. Recovering, he stepped forward, angry now, struggling to keep his voice down.

“I’m trying to help you, you dumb shit.” For emphasis, Arnie thumped Harry on the chest.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry warned.

“Listen, you!” Arnie said, determined, his knuckle rapping over Harry’s sternum.

“Get back!” He meant to push Arnie away, just get him out of his face. But Arnie’s hands came up defensively like he might throw a punch.

The shadow sprinted in Harry’s blood, showy and nasty.

Somebody screamed. Harry got control of the punch at the last second and the viscous left hook arced an inch from Arnie’s shocked face. Harry’s knuckles furrowed into the bulletin board, crushing a plastic stick pin. Harry recoiled into a fighting stance with blood on his knuckles. Dots of it on Arnie’s cheeks.

“What is this? The parking lot in high school?” Arnie’s voice shook.

Harry dropped his hands.

“Outside,” ordered Arnie. Harry pushed past him into the lobby and down the stairwell exit. They left the building and went out on the street.

“What the fuck was that all about?” yelled Arnie.

Harry sucked his bleeding knuckle. “You pushed me.”

148 / CHUCK LOGAN

Arnie shook his head. Diplomatically, he said, “I’ll take care of it. We can talk to the boss when you get back.” There was a resigned plea in his voice. Just get out of here. Take the mess out of sight.

Harry gave Arnie a vacant grin. The idea of coming back had not occurred to him.

“Watch yourself, man. You got a lot of people freaked,” muttered Arnie, not making eye contact.

“You bet.” Harry walked off toward his parking garage.

25

Harry left his Honda Civic parked illegally in front of the First National Bank building and dashed for the elevator. Linda’s office was on the seventh floor.

She saw him when he entered the reception area. At work, she drew herself down tight as a health-spa panther in a blue power suit.

She padded toward him.

“Harry, your hand is bleeding,” she said crisply. “I suppose it’s apt that the first time I see you in a suit you look like you came from a brawl.”

Harry sucked on the bloody knuckle. “I love you, too. Where’s the divorce papers?”

“What do you mean? Bud picked them up a half hour ago.”

Harry firmly took her by the elbow. “Say again?” he asked.

“You’re getting blood on my jacket,” she enunciated. Harry released his grip. “He came by and asked for the papers. Said he was going to serve them. I told him to have someone else do it. He’s not supposed to actually hand them over himself.”

“Christ. He’s out—” Harry started for the elevators. Linda kept pace.

“He didn’t look well, even considering that he’d been shot. And he was dressed…weird. He asked to borrow some cash,” said Linda.

“Why didn’t you keep him here?” Harry spun on her.

HUNTER’S MOON / 149

“He’s my client. Not my swim-check partner at summer camp. I assumed he was on his way to see you.”

“He’s bottoming out of a year-long drunk and he’s devious as a snake. I’m supposed to haul his ass into treatment at noon today so he ran from Ramsey. If he comes back this way, hold on to him.

I’ll call.” The elevator door closed before she could reply.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so damned serious. The million-dollar kid, on foot and penniless in his hometown. Christ. He could still have credit cards. What if he chartered a plane? Hopped a Greyhound? Was in a Hertz rent-a-car right now cruising north on 35?

Next stop, the Maston Foundation. This time he double-parked in front, leaving his flashers on. He bounded up the stairs into a marble-pillared, oak-paneled atrium. Louise Lennon, Bud’s elegantly appointed mastiff, sat behind her desk. Her color looked a little steamed.

“Bud,” said Harry.

“Mr. Griffin, in my opinion they should have not let Mr. Maston out of the hospital in a gymnasium suit and tennis shoes.”

“How long ago was he here, Louise?”

“Fifteen minutes. He asked…” Her cheeks reddened slightly, “for a loan and for the use of my automobile. That alarmed me, after everything that has happened.”

Harry drew in his breath. “Did you give him your car?”

“No, he withdrew the request when he saw this on my desk.” She held up a poster that portrayed an American Indian drum. An Assembly of Men—Tad Clark. Sponsored by the Maston Foundation.

Today. At the old Rivers Hotel on