Free A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) by Frank Westworth

consider whether he really should return to his own private, semi-secret half-hidden home rather than to the dirty blonde’s. They might be similar, his homes, but only one of them would ever be likely to contain that blonde, even if the timing could rarely be guaranteed.
    His head was clear, his senses up and running well, thanks to the emotional purge of the night’s playing, the rivalries and the shared music of it all.
    Two men stepped into his path. One shorter than the other and chewing gum so emphatically that it must be an act. The other was larger, a little bit massive and using that mass to block his way. Not the action of an innocent friendly stranger who has lost his bearings in the big bad dark. He was sporting a decently expensive and tool-worked leather jacket which showed at least a tiny amount of dress sense, unlike the complete absence of politeness indicated by his blocking Stoner’s path.
    ‘Stoner.’
    A statement, not a question, and as such undeserving of a response. The lesser of the two had spoken. Stoner watched the bigger. If there was to be action as well as words, that was where it would originate. He said nothing. Took his bearings, took stock. No causes for concern, no reasons for alarm. So no need to produce any response at all, not vocal, not facial; no action required.
    ‘Stoner.’
    This could go on all night. Which was fine, Stoner was in no real hurry to find that the dirty blonde had yet to arrive home. So his mood could stay good for the time being at least.
    ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Gumchew appeared to be a man of little patience. ‘For fuck’s sake; you’re Stoner, yes?’
    Stoner continued to ignore him, continued to watch Leatherjacket. The latter appeared mainly to be confused. Maybe silence was less than golden where he came from.
    ‘Jesus.’
    Where obscenity fails, the good thug can always fall back on profanity. Stoner held no views on these grammatical subtleties, preferring at this point to observe that Leatherjacket’s big hands matched his big frame, and that those hands were flexing, as a boxer’s hands are wont to do before a fight. If this was some subtle attempt at making Stoner nervous, to impress him, it would need to ramp up a little.
    Finally, Stoner flicked his gaze to Gumchew. He raised a querying eyebrow. Said nothing. Then looked back at Leatherjacket, who looked right back, flexing his fingers. Stoner wondered for a moment whether he was in fact that rumoured triangle soloist and was seeking an invite to display his art at the Blue Cube. Which delightful thought must have registered in a small smile because Gumchew changed his song a little.
    ‘Look. I know who you are. Who I am is unimportant. What is important is that I’m looking for Handy Mandy and you know where I can find her.’
    The evening was plainly a variety performance. First there was a little light romance over a soothing drop with the dirty blonde, followed by a few hours of good sweet music at the Blue Cube, and finally came the comedy. It was good, too. Stoner laughed. A real, honest laugh. A laugh from the heart.
    ‘You’re looking for a hand job?’
    Very few things could penetrate Stoner’s customary cool, but his mood was atypically elevated after the night’s blues, and this . . . well . . . it was a new experience for him. Over a long life – long by the standards of those who followed his alleged profession,at least – Stoner had been asked to locate many things, but never a hand job. He grinned. The dirty blonde would have been reaching for the Valium at this point, her hysteria a health hazard.
    Gumchew’s eyes bulged a little.
    Stoner beamed at him. ‘You’ve stopped a complete stranger in the street late in the dark of the night to ask him whether he is who you think he is and if so can he sort you out . . . a hand job?’
    His smile slipped.
    ‘Who suggested that I might be the right guy to procure such a service? Do you think I’m a pimp, you silly