Free Shooting Scars: The Artists Trilogy 2 by Karina Halle Page A

pink bike peddling cheerily past his slat-wood fence, the more I thought about what a mistake this was. This was an ex-cop. I was a fugitive. I was a lovesick idiot and a sitting duck.
    Before I could change my mind and head back to the car, the door opened a crack and I got a glimpse of a wary eye, grey beard, heavy jowls.
    “Camden McQueen?” he sounded even gruffer in person.
    What was the use in lying now?
    I nodded. “Hello, Gus.”
    He grunted and then opened the door. “You better get in here before someone sees you.”
    I swallowed and walked in. The carpeting underfoot was worn but soft, the house smelled like a cabin. It was dark. The TV was playing in the background, a movie from the 1940’s. I picked out Peter Lorre’s voice though it wasn’t
Casablanca.
    He shut the door behind him and set about locking the many deadbolts he had before finally sliding the chain across.
    “Tough neighborhood?” I asked. “I saw a girl on a My Little Pony bike outside, she looked kind of nasty.”
    He didn’t laugh. In fact he looked the opposite of amused. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his wide chest, his beer gut sticking out to infinity. His gaze leveled me.
    “Something tells me this isn’t the time to be making jokes,” he said. “Now, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not here to give you advice. I’m here to give you what you need because I made a promise to Ellie once and it seems by you being here she’s calling in on that promise. I’ll help you if you understand that I’m not doing it to be nice. I’m not doing it to be good. I’ve got my own life that I’ve sliced out for myself here and if I can avoid putting it through the burner, I will.”
    I was biting my own lip without knowing it. He was waiting for me to say something.
    “I appreciate that, Gus,” was the best I could come up with. Talking to him was a bit like talking to my dad and though I’d like to think Gus wouldn’t suddenly slap me in the face or call me a faggot, there was always the chance that he would. He was unpredictable and completely detached and that combination was a bit frightening.
    “How about you go sit down and tell me what the hell is going on,” he said, gesturing to the couch.
    I nodded, feeling more stupid by the minute and took a seat on his grey leather couch while he disappeared into his kitchen. I watched the movie on TV for a few seconds and recognized it as
Arsenic and Old Lace
with Cary Grant until Gus came back in the room with a beer. For himself.
    He sat down on the recliner across from me and cracked the top of the can, chugging down half of it before slamming it on the coffee table in either annoyance or exuberance. Foam fell down the sides.
    “You. Talk.”
    I took a deep, calming breath and got into it again, rehashing the story, telling him everything I told him before.
    “Why didn’t you tell me about being wanted by the LAPD?” he interrupted.
    And here it came. I eyed the window, expecting to see a squadron pull in right through his garden, squashing the gardenia.
    “I thought you wouldn’t help me,” I admitted. “And I need you to help me. To help Ellie.”
    “How long did you say you knew Ellie for?” he asked.
    “I went to high school with her.”
    “And?”
    “And she came back into my life two weeks ago.”
    “And?” His eyes were steel as he drank the rest of his beer, slower this time.
    “And, well, she was trying to rob me. I was on to her. We struck a deal, I’d ignore her attempt to steal from me if she’d help me escape my old life. She agreed. We took the money and ran.”
    He rolled his eyes.
    “We laundered the money in the casinos,” I went on. “We got caught.”
    “By the police?” he asked, looking confused.
    “No, by Javier,” I said. “You do know who that is, don’t you?”
    He raised his hand dismissively. “I’m very aware of who that is. I just don’t know why