Free Colonel Rutherford's Colt by Lucius Shepard Page A

much,” Rita said.
    â€œI’m embarrassed. I don’t usually . . . do anything like that.”
    â€œThings are bad, you do what you gotta.” Rita set her coffee down on the edge of the cart. The barista, a good-looking guy with shoulder-length hair and a wispy mustache, flashed a smile, which she ignored. “You gonna be all right,” she said to Ms. Snow. “You done well coming to Jimmy. He’ll move that Colt for ya.”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œIt’s a done deal. He’s already hooked a buyer.”
    â€œI know . . . he told me.”
    Rita shaded her eyes so she could watch a jet plane inching across the bright sky, about to vanish in the blaze of the sun. “I like you, Loretta. I didn’t at first”—she turned back to Ms. Snow—“but I was in a bad mood. I wasn’t looking at your situation. But knowing what you’d do for your kids, even if you don’t do it so good . . .”
    This elicited a nervous giggle from Ms. Snow.
    â€œÂ . . . that lets me see sharper. One thing I see bothers me, though. You’re looking for a hero, Loretta, and I think you looking at Jimmy.”
    Ms. Snow’s smile flattened out.
    â€œI understand how it is,” Rita went on. “There’s been times I was looking for one myself. Son-of-a-bitch never did show up.”
    Two pretty thirtyish women who had emerged from a hair salon in the mini-mall next to the Safeway approached the cart, and the barista fawned over them, calling them by name, asking how their day was going.
    â€œI think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Ms. Snow said with delicate firmness, as if she didn’t want to offend, but felt compelled to make her position clear.
    â€œHoney, I can see the way things are even if you can’t. I got no problem with you. Could be Jimmy’s the hero you been looking for. But he ain’t your hero. Understand the difference?”
    Ms. Snow put her coffee down beside Rita’s. “I should go.”
    â€œDon’t get your back up. I ain’t telling you this ’cause I’m trying to stake out my territory. That’s not my concern.”
    â€œThen why are you telling me?” Ms. Snow asked in a cool voice, an inch or two of steel showing above that soft white sheath.
    â€œWhat you need to do,” Rita said, “is let things play out with the Colt. Take your money and go to Seattle. Don’t get in any deeper.”
    â€œIt sounds,” Ms. Snow said carefully, “like you’re threatening me.”
    A black Firebird swerved out of a gas station down the street and burned rubber past the cart; a long-haired kid in the passenger seat stuck his head out the window and yelled some mad and mostly unintelligible business about pussy. Ms. Snow appeared rattled.
    â€œI’m cautioning you,” Rita said. “This ain’t about me. It’s about you. Jimmy’s took with you some, and you’re . . . vulnerable.” She gave a snort of laughter. “I hate this Oprah Winfrey shit, but that’s how it is. You’re vulnerable, and the two of you might end up making the same mistake together. Now that’d piss me off, but I wouldn’t lose my mind or nothing. All I’m saying is, maybe you oughta think about it. Y’know, if the subject comes up.”
    Ms. Snow thinned her lips, dabbed at them with a napkin. “I appreciate what you did over there.” She gestured toward the Buy-Rite. “But I guess I don’t understand exactly what you’re saying.”
    â€œDon’t go trying to figure it out.” Rita told her. “You don’t have enough information. Just take it to heart.”
    Ms. Snow squinted at Rita, as if she had suddenly gone out of focus. The barista asked if they wanted a refill, and Rita said, “No.”
    â€œI should go,” Ms. Snow said again, but gave no sign