Free Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) by Steve Ulfelder

nothing.
    â€œYou go off on tangents,” Randall said in a different voice, the voice of a man talking to a nervous horse. “You charge after causes. You misspend energy. You often do this when your actual life, life its own damn self, grows stressful. This is not news, Conway. This is not something of which you’re unaware.”
    We were quiet maybe twenty seconds.
    I searched my head.
    Then shook it.
    â€œI feel it,” I said. “They’re trying to kill him.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThat’s what I need to find out. With you or without you.” Held up the slip again. “Next stop, this guy.”
    Randall Swale and I stared at each other, perfectly still.
    Then he sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
    â€œSee what you can learn about Rinn’s husband. And about her.”
    â€œBrittania Whitney of the Wellesley Whitneys.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’s a dirty job,” Randall said.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    The voice at the other end of the phone belonged to a black guy who talked a hundred miles an hour. Donald Crump said he felt like a late lunch, asked was there any decent barbecue around here. I thought of the place in the Marlborough strip mall where I’d crippled Andrade a couple nights ago, told him how to get there. Once I clicked off, I realized I didn’t know how to spot him.
    It wasn’t hard. When I rolled up, a man who had to be Crump was pacing out front, talking on a cell. I took him in.
    Tiny man. He wore ostrich-skin cowboy boots with heels that jacked him up at least two inches. His cowboy hat, whose band matched the boots, added another six inches up top. But he would still barely come up to my chin. His suit and shirt were the color of lime sherbet. He wore a bolo tie. Its silver clasp was shaped like a cow’s skull. The cow’s eyes: two tiny emeralds.
    When I neared him, he mouthed my name and his, but stayed on his cell. He pumped my hand like a hummingbird and pulled open the door. Stayed on his cell while ordering, waiting for the food, finding a booth.
    When I was about set to take his phone and stomp it, he snapped it shut. “I could see soon’s I pulled up this food’ll be horrible,” he said. “Don’t know why you don’t get better barbecue around here, man who opens a decent barbecue joint up north is an instant millionaire. Gonna put my hat on the table here, you don’t mind. Cost more’n most folks make in a month, I leave it on a hook it’ll walk right out the door. That all you eatin’, little pulled-pork sandwich? Help yourself you want any of my sides.”
    He waved at his tray. It bowed under a full rack of Memphis-style ribs, cucumber salad, dirty mashed potatoes, red beans, and three squares of corn bread.
    I said, “How much food do you order in a decent place?”
    His laugh: high-pitched. “Good one, good one.” His skin was very dark, very smooth. His head was shaved, his goatee precise, his eyes quick. He took a long strip of the brown paper towel they use for napkins, tucked it in his collar, smoothed it. “You looking at my paper towel? Got to protect the suit, suit costs more’n most people make in six months. Now why’d sweet young Rinn Biletnikov put you in touch with me?”
    I shrugged. “You tell me. Where you from?”
    â€œEverywhere. Anywhere. Now? Houston. Lot of opportunity there. Texas where a hungry man wants to be.”
    I ate a bite of my sandwich. It’d be easy to let Donald Crump, whoever the hell he was, steamroll you with the patter. He probably counted on it. So I focused, took a deep breath.
    â€œRinn told me you’d have something to say about her husband. Peter. Something I ought to hear.”
    â€œWhy you want to hear about him in the first place?”
    â€œWhy do you want to know?”
    â€œYou’re the one called me for a download, fool.”
    â€œYeah, but