“But it had been a long time since the military, there was a chance I’d be shooting at some kind of cop, along with everything that entailed, and anyway my neck hurt. I laid the revolver on the floor, gave it a push, and rose slowly. “Smart boy. Now turn around, not too fast. You ain’t Tonya Harding.” I did that, keeping my hands clear of my sides. There was a shallow alcove this side of the pull-up door, with a step-up for storing lawn mowers and garden equipment and creepers for the amateur me...chanic. But the untidy human factor had kicked in, and junk had accumulated atop those items: dusty cardboard boxes, broken chairs awaiting repair or more likely some future trash day, odd scraps of lumber, a rusted charcoal grill. There had barely been room for him to stand back around the corner where he wouldn’t be seen until it didn’t matter, and from the looks of the jumble he had cleared it himself. He was standing near the edge now, a middle-size slab of casual muscle and serious flab in a corduroy sportcoat, white Oxford shirt buttoned to the neck without a tie, wine-colored slacks, and brown wingtips.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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