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Kelto stared back at me, dazed and gasping for breath. |
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I got off of him, swaggered to the dresser and poured myself another drink. I was secretly wondering how Mike Hammer or Travis McGee would have improved on my little routine. |
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It was destined to take him another four or five minutes to marshal his scrambled senses. In the meantime, I slumped down on the edge of the bed, casually reached into my survival kit and fished out the Mauser. For effect, I exercised the nine-cartridge clip and rebolted it. Kelto's eyes were as big as golf balls. |
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"What . . . what's this . . . all about," he finally wheezed. |
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"Let's just say I'm pissed." |
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"Look, Tinker Bell, you slip into my room without knocking, you make veiled threats, you give me some kindergarten story about being the only survivor of the Battle Harbor carnage. Then you manage to get in the way while I'm following the old woman in the fog and I lose her. And if that isn't enough, you expect me to buy some half-baked story about you out tromping happily through the woods while the rest of the community is being carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey." I paused just long enough to reach down, jerk him to his feet and shove him |
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