Free Night and Day (Book 3): Bandit's Moon by Ken White

right ear. The barrel of a pistol.
    “Federal agent,” the guy behind the
    pistol said softly.
    “What’s that in your hand?” another
    guy asked from my left side, his voice low.
    “Mayonnaise jar,” I
    whispered.
    “Well put the mayonnaise jar on the
    ground,” he replied. “Slowly. Quietly.”
    I squatted and put the jar on the
    concrete. The pistol in my ear followed me all the way down.
    “Okay, stand up,” the guy on the
    left said.
    I stood. “I’m a licensed private
    investigator and I’m armed,” I said softly. It’s always good to get that
    out early with cops, local or otherwise. It avoids misunderstandings
    later.
    “A private dick, huh,” the guy with
    the pistol said. He was speaking quietly, but his voice was rough,
    gravelly.
    “Where’s the piece?” The guy on the
    left. Smoother voice, some kind of accent. New York, maybe
    Boston.
    “Shoulder rig,” I said. “Under my
    left arm.”
    The one on the left unzipped my
    jacket and stuck his arm inside. After some fumbling with the strap that
    held the pistol in the holster, he had the gun in his hand. “Nice,” he
    said. “What is it?”
    “Glock 29.”
    “I like it,” he said. “Compact. Not
    too heavy. How many rounds in the clip?”
    “Ten.” For a federal agent, he
    didn’t know his firearms very well.
    I heard a scratchy voice ask,
    “What’s happening?”
    Gravel voice fumbled in his pocket
    and I looked over my shoulder to see him raise a small walkie-talkie to his
    mouth. It was one of those little oblong ones they used to sell for short
    range communications before the war. Not exactly what I would have expected
    federal law enforcement to be using.
    “We got him,” he said into the
    radio.
    “Okay, wait,” the man on the other
    end said. “Be ready to move fast.”
    “Got it,” gravel voice
    said.
    “You got private dick paper?” the
    guy on the left asked.
    “Back pocket of my jeans, on the
    right,” I said. I felt him fish out my PI ID case.
    “So what agency are you guys with?”
    I asked.
    “We’ll discuss that upstairs,”
    gravel voice said. “Just keep your mouth shut and be ready to go when we
    say.”
    Scratchy voice on the radio. “Okay,
    clear.”
    “Come on,” the guy on the left
    said. He brushed past me and I followed, gravel voice behind me. He went
    out of the alley, turned left, then turned left again and disappeared into
    an open door.
    It was an enclosed stairway that
    went up to the second floor of the building just west of the alley. Smooth
    voice led the way, with gravel voice behind me.
    Smooth voice was tall and thin.
    Gravel voice short and chunky. They both wore black ankle-length cloth
    coats, black leather gloves and fedoras. They looked like something out of
    a 30s crime movie.
    Hurrying ahead, smooth voice
    reached the top of the stairs and tried the doorknob. “Goddamn it,” he
    muttered. “He locked it.”
    “Fuckin’ acorns,” gravel voice said
    from behind me. Whatever that meant.
    The door opened and smooth voice
    went inside. A couple of seconds later, I was through it too.
    We were in what looked like the
    living room of an apartment, maybe the home of whoever had owned the
    now-empty shop below. There was nothing in the room except for a ratty
    upholstered chair by the window with a pair of binoculars on the floor
    beside it. In the back, an open doorway with the soft glow of light coming
    from somewhere inside.
    Standing in front of me was a
    hawk-nosed guy, about my height, wearing the same long cloth coat and
    fedora as the other two. His only distinguishing feature other than his
    beak was a thin, well-trimmed mustache.
    He stared at me for a moment, then
    looked past me at gravel voice. “Pirelli, keep watch,” he said. His voice
    was very deep.
    “Yeah, right,” gravel voice said.
    He went over to the chair and dropped into it, picking up the binoculars
    and raising them to his eyes. He seemed to be looking in the general
    direction of the