Free Twice in a Lifetime by Dorothy Garlock

holding a wad of money.
    Until the son of a bitch stole from him.
    He still wasn’t sure how it’d happened. Like a half-dozen times before, Sweet had met with Barstow to sell him morphine. They had almost finished when a flunky who ran numbers for Sweet barged in complaining about some missing receipts. In the time it had taken to fix the problem—a threat of grave bodily harm had finally done the trick—Barstow had made off with three bottles of morphine and a bag holding a couple hundred dollars cash. On top of that, the mechanic seemed to have vanished into thin air. Even after Sweet put the word out, offering a reward to whoever brought him Barstow’s whereabouts, no trace had been found.
    It was bad enough that Sweet was out his stuff, but the real problem was that it wasn’t his to begin with. Sweet had been given the drugs and cash by Curtis Webber, a bigger fish in the criminal pond that was St. Louis. Sweet was to sell and otherwise distribute it, skimming a small amount off the top to keep for himself. After Barstow’s theft, Sweet had had to return to his superior with his tail tucked between his legs and come clean about what had happened. He’d expected there to be severe and immediate consequences. Instead, Curtis had calmly explained that if Sweet didn’t get back what had been stolen, if he didn’t cut Barstow’s throat from ear to ear, not only would he lose any chance to advance in the underworld that ruled the city, but he would soon find himself dead, floating in the river, food for the fishes.
    Sweet understood immediately. This wasn’t a job for his men. He had to do it himself. After all, more than his product had been taken; Barstow had also robbed him of his pride.
    “What kind of car did they drive?” he prodded.
    “It…it was a black…Plymouth…” the bound man answered. “It didn’t…look like much…but the way that fella drove…it was fast as all get out…”
    That fella was Drake McCoy, Sweet was sure of it. He had never met the driver, but word was he was aces behind the wheel and had been working with Barstow for years. Their play was simple: between seasons on the racing circuit, they drove around the countryside winning money from fools like Garrett. While Sweet couldn’t have said for certain whether McCoy was in on Barstow’s theft, in the end, it didn’t matter; when he finally got hold of the mechanic, if McCoy was with him, he’d suffer the same fate.
    “Which way were they headed?”
    “I…I don’t…don’t know…” Garrett replied, his breathing labored. “They…done left the track…and headed south, but there…ain’t no knowin’ for certain…after that…”
    Sweet pulled the pistol from his waistband and squatted in front of Garrett so that the man could take a good look. He turned it around in the faint light of the lone bulb that dangled overhead, a dull shine off the dark steel. “I suggest you think hard ’bout the details,” he said. “If I was to think you were keepin’ something from me…”
    “I ain’t! I swear it!”
    “Can’t say I’m convinced,” Sweet said as he cocked the pistol’s hammer and raised it so that it was level with the bound man’s eyes.
    Garrett shook in terror, causing blood and sweat to splatter the ground at his feet. For an instant he strained against his restraints, his body shaking like a leaf, before he fell limp, unconscious.
    Sweet lowered the gun and stood.
    “You should cut his throat now and be done with it.”
    Sweet looked into the deeper, darker shadows at the back of the barn. Jesse Church leaned lazily against a beam, absently picking at his fingernails with a switchblade, his hat pulled down low over his face. Unlike Malcolm, Jesse was tall and lanky; though he was far less imposing physically, it didn’t mean he was no less dangerous. While his fellow henchman was adept with his fists, Jesse preferred his knife; he had slid it between the ribs of many a man, especially those who