Free No Gun Intended by Zoe Burke

correct my English, or expound on all the things I should know more about. Bruckner’s symphonies, the geological strata of the Grand Canyon, the benefits and drawbacks of root vegetables, and why daylight-saving time should be abolished are monologues I recall, from four different guys, mind you. What I don’t recall is ever showing the least bit of interest in any of those topics.
    So I took a breath and reminded myself that this was Mickey talking, not any of those jerks, and that Miss Klipple had probably been looking out for my best interests. “Hon. I know you worry about me. But I’ll be fine.”
    Mickey didn’t respond.
    â€œHon?”
    â€œYeah, still here. Wishing I was there. Luis and I should be working on this together, while you should be enjoying visiting the ’rents.”
    â€œAll three of us should be working on this together, and we are. I’m part of the detective agency, remember?”
    He didn’t answer right away, and then said, “Call me after you and Luis leave the bar?”
    â€œDefinitely. Mickey, something’s weird with Mom and Dad. They were out this morning and were all squirrely about it when they got back. Didn’t want to say what they were doing.”
    Mickey laughed. “Maybe they went somewhere to have some hot sex!”
    â€œEw! Mickey! Don’t talk about my parents having hot sex! Ew!”
    â€œThey’re great people, Annabelle. You’re lucky to have them. They’ll let you know if something important is going on.”
    â€œYou’re right. I know.” I snuggled back underneath the covers. “Are you coming out here?”
    â€œI’ll know more tomorrow. Hang in there.”
    â€œHow’s Bonkers?”
    â€œDriving me crazy. He perches on top of my chest when I get in bed and head-butts me.”
    I giggled. “He’s starting to love you, sweetie.”
    â€œI think I liked it better when he growled at me and hid under the bed.”
    â€œGo to sleep now. I love you.”
    â€œI count on that, every minute of every day.”
    I hung up, set the phone on the bedside table, and quickly fell asleep.

Chapter Twelve
    The name of the bar where Howard Hanks was last seen is called The Rowdy Yeats, which cracked me up. Whoever came up with that showed some real class, in my opinion.
    I parked the car and got out right after Luis, punched the lock button, and started to head across the street to the front door until Luis stopped me, holding my arm gently. “Annabelle, I still think you should wait in the car.”
    â€œLuis, the name of this bar—I’m going to like the owner. The owner is going to like me. I’ll get more information than you will.”
    â€œI do not understand.”
    â€œRowdy Yates was Clint Eastwood’s character on ‘Rawhide,’ an old TV show—it was Eastwood’s break-out role—but it was spelled differently. Y-e-a-t-s, on the other hand…”
    â€œYes, I know. The poet.”
    â€œRight you are. So, I’m going in.”
    â€œMickey was clear…”
    â€œMickey and you and I are partners. He’s not in charge. Let’s go.” I patted Luis on the shoulder and we proceeded into the bar.
    The Rowdy Yeats looked like a dump from the outside, but inside, it was pretty cool, for a dark bar where three rusty-looking men sat at noon, empty shot glasses and half-empty draft beers in front of them, staring at a soccer game on the wide-screen TV. It was clean—I could tell, even in the half-light, that the tables were wiped and the floor wasn’t sticky—and there were photographs on the walls of, you guessed it, Eastwood and Yeats. Dark green ruffled curtains framed the windows, and a tiffany-style lamp hung from the ceiling over the pool table at the back.
    Luis and I sat on a couple of stools. The bartender made his way to us and patted his hand on the bar. “What’ll it be,