Free Noir(ish) (9781101610053) by Evan Guilford-blake

grinned. His mouth looked like somebody had staked a claim on it: Half his teeth were gold. The other half were missing. He took a step in my direction and aimed his size 14 foot at my face. I threw my arms up, but he stopped in mid-kick, lowered the foot, and laughed. I was plenty relieved. If his kick was half as bad as his laugh, it would be plenty vicious.
    The big guy looked at me a moment longer, then, gun still in hand, followed Wilma out. The door slammed behind them, and I heard footsteps pounding down the wooden hall.
    I waited till I figured Whit had had enough time to close the elevator door behind them. I was still hurting—it felt like I would hurt for a month—but I raised myself slowly, taking breaths as deep as my belly would comfortably allow. I checked for broken bones. There weren’t any. I stood up. Cautiously. I touched my face; there wasn’t much blood, and what was there was almost dry. I had plenty of blood; I could do without those few drops. What I couldn’t do was understand: who they were, how they knew about the package, why they wanted it. Somehow, Dan Scott had to be behind the invasion; I didn’t know how, but I
would
find out.
    I went to the desk, picked up my cup, and took a swallow of coffee. It was tepid, but it helped ease the tightness in my throat and stomach.
    I walked gingerly to the cabinet Elisha had forced open, knelt down, and reached into the very back of the empty bottom drawer, in the concave ridge behind the file slide I’d moved last night, just before I left. I smiled. Ah, the magic of cellophane tape.
    Moving slowly, I picked up my gun, the .38 Colt—most people favored automatics these days, but I liked, and trusted, the old-fashioned kind—and started on the rest.
    I glanced into the waiting area: It looked like a quake had hit. Well, I’d deal with that later. I grabbed an empty box and began to fill it with the residue of Wilma and Elisha’s spree that was strewn across my office.
    I’d filled one box, and the second was still half empty when I heard the footsteps clicking in the hallway. The shadow of a figure was moving briskly toward the outer door. It was embracing something large. I was in no mood for another visitor, much less one carrying a surprise. I took out my gun and stood by the door to my office. I was hidden, but I could see anyone who came through the frosted glass. The footsteps stopped. I cocked the hammer. The figure adjusted its burden. I waited. The door opened. I raised the gun.
    Arms filled, Gloria walked in. “I’m back, Mr. Grahame,” she called cheerfully. “Guess what I’ve—” She saw the mess and gasped. “Oh, my, what—Mr. Grahame! Where are you? Are you all right?”
    I breathed a small sigh of relief and lowered my Colt. “I’m fine, Gloria,” I said, and stepped into the waiting room.
    She dropped the package and her purse on her desk. “What . . . ?” she began. Her voice trailed off. She gestured around the disarray.
    â€œI had a couple visitors. They weren’t very friendly.”
    â€œOh, dear!” She removed her hat, then hurried toward me and began to dust me off. “Oh, you’ve got a cut! Let me get—”
    I touched my face again. The blood was sticky, still not quite dry. “It’s just a scrape, don’t—”
    â€œA scrape can be
just
as dangerous as a cut. Now you sit down and I’ll clean it!” she commanded. I sat, more amused than injured, in one of the still upright, well-dusted chairs. Gloria had an unexpected maternal instinct. “Where’s your kit?”
    I pointed to a storage cabinet. The doors were open and its contents a mess. “In there,” I said. “Top shelf, unless they ‘moved’ it.” She went to get it. “What’s in the package?” I asked.
    Gloria stopped. She turned toward me with a startled look.