Free The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon Page B

again in the open yellow sightseeing trolley headed up the mountain in the spring sunshine. This one wouldn’t kiss. I could tell. With wine back in her mouth I asked about it.
    â€œSome do,” she said, swallowing.
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt’s unhygienic.”
    BOB AND HIS WHORES staggered out of the room. I wondered what time it was. The lights were low and through the walls I heard a gramophone skipping.
    â€œPete!” I shouted at Jack across the distance between us, about five feet.
    â€œWhat’s that, Sam?”
    â€œRemember the Wolf?”
    â€œThe Wolf,” Jack said, and raised his glass, spilling fluid.
    Jack’s blonde giggled and drank from a bottle’s neck.
    â€œWhat happened in the woods?” I asked.
    â€œLater,” he said.
    â€œAnd what about tonight?”
    â€œWorry not, my son.”
    â€œI was going to leave. Take a train.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it.”
    â€œNo future in this,” I said.
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œWhat happened to us?” I asked.
    â€œWe got old.”
    The door burst open. Bob being kicked backwards. The whores screamed. I pushed up from the cushions and woozed to my feet. Three men wearing suits and Mackintoshes forced their way in. Cops? Jack chucked a bottle and plonked the first man square between the eyes. The intruder dropped and his compatriot charged Bob and threw him against a wall. Bob in his shorts, his jacket in one hand, shoes in the other.
    â€œLousy fucking Frogs!” Bob shouted.
    The Mackintosh hit by the bottle lay on the floor. Jack rushed the man pinning Bob to the wallpaper. Jack’s whore screamed and pointed: “Dot!”
    Celeste looked at the third man in the doorway and her face fell in shock.
    â€œNo,” she mouthed.
    The third man tensed for his move. I lurched at him and was met by his fist sinking into my gut. Down on my knees, I gasped and grabbed at his ankles, trying to pull him down. He kicked at my head but missed and stumbled onto his back. From behind Jack shoved me through the door. I stepped on my attacker’s soft groin and my heel glanced a live throat. Jack kicked and Bob staggered behind, trying to pull his gun from his jacket pocket while juggling his wardrobe.
    â€œMy pants...” he gestured.
    â€œBob, no,” Jack yelled, pushing the gun out of sight. “Go!”
    Shouted curses chased us out. We blundered through the foyer and out onto the wet porch, pushing down the steps and trying to run at a pace. I gagged and retched. Jack held me up as we stumbled along. Bob swore.
    â€œCops?” I wheezed.
    â€œBob,” Jack growled.
    â€œThose lousy fuckers,” said Bob.
    WE ROLLED DOWN the street and turned left at Sherbrooke. Jack still had the money case of silver. My share was safe upon me. After a few blocks we came to the gates of the university and moved just inside the wall under the bare boughs of an oak. I lay in damp leaves, enveloped in the heavy odour of dirt and sweet decay, looking up at faraway stars visible behind breaking clouds above.
    â€œJesus, Bob. What the hell’d you do to them?”
    â€œThey were the ones came after me,” he protested, “just as I was getting started. They called me something and stuck their mitts on one of the girls.”
    â€œMaybe they thought you were someone else,” I said.
    â€œIt could have been a divorce set-up gone wrong. Wrong room, wrong party,” Jack said. “Or a lover’s quarrel.”
    â€œYou need a motion passed in the Senate to get a divorce,” I said, unheeded.
    The punch to my stomach had sobered me up properly and still throbbed. I remembered the look on Celeste’s face as she saw the third man. It was a lover’s quarrel and we’d been caught in the middle, our luck.
    â€œWell, at least they weren’t coppers. But what’m I to do without my pants?” asked