Free The Frighteners by Donald Hamilton

waited. Presently Gloria appeared from the DAMAS side of the screen, unharmed. Young Charles appeared from the CABALLEROS side with his hands empty. I noted that he was moderately tall, although no beanpole like Buff Cody or Cody’s present impersonator. He threw a look in my direction, hesitated, and strode out the door of the restaurant. I wondered if I’d been wrong about the ownership of the red pickup; but I heard no motor start up outside. Apparently Charles had been sensible enough to park his transportation some distance away, out of sight. Well, you can’t be stupid all the time, although some folks try.
    I watched Gloria approach. The color had returned to her face. The vagrant lock had rejoined the disciplined waves and swirls of her perfect hairdo. The stress damage to her makeup had been repaired.
    “Okay?” I asked, rising to help with the chair.
    She nodded without conviction, still shaken by her experience. I returned to my seat and picked up my knife and fork again.
    I said, ‘‘I see that the Dark Avenger of the Sierra de la Madera disdained to join us.”
    She said, “You took an awful risk.”
    “You ain’t just kidding, querida ."
    “No. I mean with my life. Not dropping that gun when he told you to. He might have shot me!”
    “That Boy Scout?” I shook my head. “Not a chance. Me, maybe, if I’d remained facing him and given him time to psych himself up and tell me all about why he had to kill me. These resolute young revengers always want you to know why you’re dying. But there was no way he could have killed an attractive girl no matter how tough he talked to her—except maybe accidentally while he was using that pistol as a cattle prod. And he’d never in the world have shot me in the back either. They have this thing about directional homicide. Murdering an eastbound gent, if you’re east of him, is okay; but if he happens to be traveling west, it’s a no-no. Once I got myself turned away from him in there I was safe as a house.”
    “I see.” Her voice was dry. “That’s why you’re hitting the beer so hard, because you were so safe. Because we were both so safe.”
    I glanced at her sharply. She was more perceptive than I’d thought. After a moment I grinned. “Tell me about it,” I said. “Start with the gun. What kind was it?”
    “What difference. . . . I keep telling you, I hate them!”
    “You hate them, but you don’t know anything about them and can’t be bothered learning. That’s not much of a hate. A real hater learns everything he can about the hated enemy.”
    She said, “I think it was what’s called an automatic. Fairly large. Not one of the little pocket things. It had a fat grip that pretty well filled his hand, and he had a good-sized hand. It had a hammer but it wasn’t—what do you call it?—wasn’t cocked.”
    I said, “Hey, that’s not bad for a gun-hater. It tells us that we’re dealing with, probably, one of the big 9mm auto pistols, say Beretta, or maybe Smith and Wesson. It probably holds fourteen or fifteen rounds, which is handy to know. It means he doesn’t have to reload after five or six, like with a revolver. The gun is probably double action. That means the trigger doesn’t just fire the gun, it cocks the hammer first—double action—so you don’t have to cock it with your thumb or by working the slide, which is why he didn’t bother to carry it cocked.” I was talking idly just to steady her down. I went on: “Okay. How did he get you in there?”
    She licked her lips. “Well, you don’t stare at a strange man when he’s coming out of the Caballeros fixing his pants. I just started in the other door. The next thing I knew, I’d been yanked practically off my feet and dragged into the men’s room. He showed me the gun, told me to behave and I wouldn’t get hurt; we were going to wait for hubby, you, to miss me and come after me. When I started to protest, he jabbed me so hard with the gun it really hurt; I was