Free Shot of Tequila by J. A. Konrath Page B

draw a bead on Slake before Slake popped a cap in his head. He’d have to drop Slake with one shot, because Terco and Matisse would then draw on him, and Marty sure as hell had some heat on his person as well.
    The deciding factor was Slake. If it had been any of the others in the closet, Tequila would have gone for self-preservation and shot his way out of there. But he knew Slake. Slake had hated Tequila since they’d first met. Part of it was jealousy. Slake had never been in Marty’s favor, while Tequila always seemed to be. But mostly, it was because deep down inside, Slake was a rotten human being. Tequila sensed that Slake would dearly love to put a few bullets into him, and his eagerness to do so meant Tequila wouldn’t have the advantage his quickness normally gave him.
    “I’ll lose the guns,” Tequila said, calm as a sunset, “if someone tells me what’s going on.”
    “You stole my money!” Marty screamed, his red balloon of a face threatening to pop.
    “I didn’t steal any money. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “If you’re innocent,” Slake said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “then you don’t have anything to worry about.”
    Tequila stared hard at Slake. He saw little sparks of what looked like flame in the thin man’s eyes. He also noticed that Slake was slowly, every so slowly, pulling the trigger on his nine millimeter.
    “Fine,” Tequila said, turning to Marty. “But I’m being straight with you. I didn’t steal any money. I’ve worked for you for five years Marty, and I haven’t wronged you once. Whatever reason you think I did, it’s incorrect. I’m innocent here, Marty. And I’m putting away my guns to show good faith.”
    Tequila could feel the heat from Marty’s stare, all of the anger still boiling on the surface of his face.
    “One more thing, Marty. Slake’s about to shoot me. If he kills me, you won’t know what I know.”
    Marty turned his angry gaze to the closet.
    “Slake, you asshole, if you shoot him so help me I’ll gut you with a fork and string tennis rackets with you.”
    Tequila saw the tension go out of Slake’s hand, the trigger returning back to its normal position. Moving slowly, testing the waters, Tequila lowered the gun aimed at Marty and holstered it. Then he gave Leman his full attention.
    “I’m sure Marty would gut you as well, Leman, if you decide to take it upon yourself to end my life.”
    “Drop it,” Marty ordered the ex-cop.
    Leman made a sour face, and then stuck the pistol in his pants. Tequila reciprocated by holstering his other .45. He hopped off the desk, his eyes locked onto Marty’s.
    “Now tell me what you think I did.”
    “I can do better than that. I can show you. Matisse!”
    Matisse was pinching his bloody nose, an action that had consumed his full concentration for the last few minutes. He seemed to snap awake when his name was called.
    “Yeah, Marty?”
    “Go find me another TV. Hurry up.”
    Matisse nodded and lumbered off.
    “Okay, Tequila. I’m going to give you the benefit of several hundred doubts. Earlier today, two men drilled a hole in the steel door of my counting room and gassed Matisse, Leman, and my two number crunchers. We’ve got it all on tape. One of those men was short and muscular, and had a butterfly tattoo on his right hand. It was an inside job. All of my men have been accounted for during the time of the robbery. And Leman, right before he went out, heard one of the burglars call your name. What does all of that add up to?”
    “It sounds like someone set me up.”
    “So where were you during the robbery?”
    “I was tracking down Billy Chico, as you told me. I found him robbing a liquor store on Devon, and he drew on me. You’ll read about it in the morning papers.”
    “What do you mean, as I told you? I didn’t send you after Chico. It was your day off.”
    “You called me around six.”
    “Are you saying that I don’t fucking know when I call you and