|
|
|
|
|
|
|
pick up. Since South Padre wasn't the kind of place where a man stood on formality, he headed straight for the sandy strip of beach. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Pasquel Morgan looked up apprehensively when he saw the tall, tanned law officer approaching. "I can tell by the look on your face this ain't a social call, right?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As usual, Bartholomew didn't have long to assess the situation. He had wanted to approach the old man as Bart Miller, owner of the Gull House, and not Deputy Miller, Red Gleason's sometime surrogate. But Pasquel had already rightly read the situation. Under the circumstances, there was probably no other way to read it. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Mornin', Pasquel," he drawled. Ruthie had told him once that when he put on Gleason's badge, his voice took on an affected drawl. He wasn't sure he agreed with Ruthie about that or the dozen other things they were fighting about toward the end. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The old man had stiffened. Once or twice his eyes darted down into his skiff, and Bart suspected that the man had something hidden in there he didn't want Bart to see. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Pasquel's eyes darted out to the gulf again before he turned his attention to the deputy. "It's gettin' choppy," he assessed. "Think there'll be a blow?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Miller breathed a sigh of relief. At least the old man hadn't gone off half-cocked. In situa- |
|
|
|
|
|