Free Lucky Bang by Deborah Coonts Page A

help him?"
    "I'm the only friend in his corner. I'll do what I can, but he's got to help himself first."
    With one quick jerk, she flipped the shotgun closed. For a fraction of a second, I thought she'd use it on me. Instead, she leaned it against the wall. As she ran her finger around the barrel holes, she thought for a moment. Then she gave me a half-grin that lifted one corner of her lips exposing stained teeth. "Pretty tough, aren't you? You didn't flinch." Then she turned and shouted over her shoulder. "Frenchie, get your ass out here."
    I thought about telling her there was a fine line between tough and stupid, but I didn't want to undermine my illusion of badass—it might still come in handy.
    Just as Frenchie pushed through the back door, biting off the corner of a Pop-Tart, Dane walked in through the front, letting squint-inducing sunlight in with him. Apparently Dane was a bit more clever than I gave him credit for as he took stock of the situation with one glance. Then, he pretended not to know me as he sauntered over to the Harley. Gracie stepped around the counter to help him, leaving me alone with her brother.
    An androgynous carbon copy of his sister, Frenchie sported the same painful thinness, the same long, stringy hair, the same tats. But instead of Gracie's closed, wary look, Frenchie's face was open, approachable—childlike in a way. And while his sister decorated herself with a shotgun, Frenchie wore a simple tool belt slung low on his hips with screwdrivers, vice grips, and wrenches hanging from the loops—ready to fix or filch.
    "Hey, Ms. O'Toole." His eyes, clear and blue, met mine. If he was scared, he had me fooled. "You wanna sit? Look's like life's slapped you around a bit." With one hand, he lifted a stool from behind the counter and handed it to me as he bit off another bite of the Pop-Tart, which looked like a strawberry one. My stomach growled—I'm a slave to the siren call of food.
    Grateful, I shot him a smile as I took a load off. Behind me, Dane peppered Gracie with questions about the motorcycle, keeping her occupied. "Heard you got a bit of a headache."
    His expression turned quizzical. "Yeah, a real pounder. Been poppin' Aspirin like it's Blue Bennies, ya' know?"
    Thankfully, I didn't know, and I don't think it mattered. "Caffeine."
    "No shit?" He looked doubtful.
    "Caffeine is a vaso-constrictor. It counteracts the dilating effects of the nitro."
    "Well, I'll be damned." Frenchie set the remaining bit of his pastry on the filthy counter making me cringe, then turned to push through the door to the back. "Hang on a sec. We got a fresh pot on the burner. Want some?"
    I shook my head. When he returned with both hands gripping the mug as if it were a lifeline, I started in again. "Tell me about the dynamite. Short and sweet, okay?"
    "Me and Flea were wampin' around the desert north of here, out the 95, messing in some of the old mines and stuff." Flea was the leader of the motorcycle gang that had taken Frenchie in, probably as a pet or mascot. He didn't have enough macho to scare anyone, so what use would he be to the gang? I had no idea. Amusement? I looked at him as he snagged the remaining bit of Pop-Tart, polished it off, then licked his fingers one at a time. If he was their amusement, they were desperate.
    "We found a crate of the sticks in one of them," Frenchie continued after swallowing, wiping his hands on his jeans.
    "Anything else?"
    He gave me a quizzical look. "Nothin' of any value."
    "Why don't you let me be the judge of that? One man's trash, another man's treasure." I glanced around the pawnshop. "You should know that better than anybody."
    "Okay, there were some old clocks. You know, those wind up things that you can't even get rid of at the flea market?"
    I nodded. "Anything else?"
    "Some little tubes filled with some silver liquid, blasting caps, an old briefcase with some papers in it…nothing important."
    "What did the papers say?"
    Frenchie shrugged. "Impossible