Paint the Town Dead
“I jabbed my index finger into Ernie’s polo-shirted chest.
“Back off, Mr. Boudreaux,” I snapped. “Threaten me again, and I’ll call the police. Got it?”
He backed up.
“Now, you can tell me what’s wrong in a calm, civilized manner, or you can hit the road. I don’t care which you choose.”
It had been a long day.
He growled, alternately clenching and unclenching his fists. Meanwhile, I noticed Georgine standing just inside the store, eyes huge, face pale. Her pastel-striped blouse was buttoned to her chin, and her short salt-and-pepper hair stuck up as if she’d repeatedly pulled on it. She’d twisted a white handkerchief into a soggy knot. Today she didn’t look angry or sour. She looked ill and scared.
I put my focus back on Ernie. “All right, what is your problem?”
“You’re the problem,” he snarled.
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