Free Free Fire by C.J. Box Page A

bribes, looked at him coolly and raised his beer bottle in greeting. Toomer would be pleased McCann was back because McCann owed him.
    And Sheila D’Amato, the dark-eyed former vixen who had shown up on the arm of a reputed mafioso en route to the park only to be dumped on the street after an argument, met his eyes while wetting her lips with the point of her tongue.
    She was with him, for sure. Good enough for now.
    McCann said with a tone of triumph, “ West Yellowstone’s most infamous resident has returned.”
    Someone in the back mumbled, “Let’s see how long he lasts.”
    A few men snorted in assent.
    McCann visualized the room standing en masse and charginghim. He inconspicuously lowered his right hand and brushed the dead weight of the .38 in his jacket pocket with his fingertips.
    Les Davis, owner of the Conoco station, said, “I don’t think you’re welcome here.”
    “So get the hell out,” another man rasped.
    McCann found his voice, said, “We don’t want this to get out of hand.”
    Davis mumbled something inaudible.
    “We can be friends or we can be enemies,” McCann said. “I’d prefer to be friends. That way none of us winds up in court.”
    He turned to the bartender. “I’d like a cheeseburger, medium rare, and a Yellowstone Pale Ale.” His voice didn’t quaver and he was thankful.
    The barman attempted to stare McCann down, but he couldn’t hold it. Sheepishly, he glanced over the bar at the still-silentcrowd. They were all watching him to see what he’d do.
    McCann said softly, “Are you refusing me service? I’d hate to bring a discrimination suit against this place since everyone loves it so much.”
    “Give him some fucking food,” Butch Toomer growled from his corner table. “The man’s got to eat.”
    The barman looked down, said, “I just work here.”
    “Then place my order.”
    “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
    McCann nodded his appreciation to Toomer, who raised his beer in silent partnership. Sheila was practically devouring him with her dark, mascara’d raccoon eyes. She smiled wickedly at him, her eyes moist. And not just her eyes, he hoped.
    “Tell you what,” he said to the barman, “I’ll order it to go. You can have someone bring the order to my office. That way your patrons can reel their eyes back in.”
    “Good idea,” the man said, visibly relieved.
    As he opened the door, McCann shot a glance over his shoulder at Les Davis and his crowd of burghers and fought the impulse to say, “ Losers .”
    On the way to his office two blocks away on Madison, McCannbought two six-packs of local Moose Drool beer from the dingy convenience store and carried them to his office. He fished the gun from his pocket and placed it on his desk, then sat in his chair and waited for his dinner to arrive. His nerves were still tingling.
    The Journal reporter had made fun of his office location too, that his practice was on Madison Avenue, but not that Madison Avenue. This Madison Avenue, in West Yellowstone, Montana, saw more wandering elk on the sidewalks than it did men in three-piece suits.
    There was a huge pile of unopened mail on his desk and he rifled through it. Hate mail, mostly, he assumed. He swept the pile into the garbage can. He’d done the same with letters sent to him while he was in jail.
    The only letters McCann took seriously were from other lawyers threatening civil actions against him on behalf of the murdered campers. McCann knew they’d have a good case. Luckily, he thought, it could take years to get to trial, and he didn’t plan to be available when and if it did.
    While he waited, he imagined hearing the sounds of a mob building outside on the street. Pitchforks and torches being raised. Guttural shouts morphing into a chant: “ Justice . . . Justice . . . Justice . . .” Then the door would burst open and dozens of dirty hands would reach for him across his desk. . . .
    So when there was a knock on his door he gripped the .38