Free Silencer by James W. Hall Page A

allow himself that night, and he was headed outside to join the fray when two guys blocked his way, then came into the kitchen, making him walk backward three or four steps.
    One athletic, good-looking guy, the other was slinky with a shit-eating grin. He hadn’t seen them around Key Largo, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t seen them earlier at the party. Arriving too late for anything good to come of it.
    The shit-eater was blinking against the kitchen lights like some troll who’d just emerged from under his dark bridge.
    â€œYou Thorn?”
    Thorn said yes, he was in fact a man by that name.
    â€œGirl outside said you were in here. Blonde with tits big as Ohio.”
    â€œThat’s Squirrelly Shirley,” Thorn said. “Runs a dress shop. You in the market for a dress?”
    The shit-eater grinned and looked over at the big guy.
    â€œOh, boy, this one’s cute.”
    â€œYou, on the other hand,” Thorn said, “are not so cute.”
    Thorn was watching the athletic one amble around the kitchen, searching for something. He was looking at the appliances and the knickknacks with a possessive air, like a shopper who could afford anything in the store.
    â€œParty’s winding down,” Thorn said.
    â€œNo, it’s not,” the runty guy said. “We just got here. We’re the party now.”
    The athletic one, muscular shoulders, dressed like a schoolteacher on the first day of class, picked up a notepad that Rusty used for grocery lists.
    He took a pen from the glass jar on the kitchen counter.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Thorn said.
    â€œName’s Moses,” the big one said. “You have permission to call me that.”
    Moses set the pad on the counter in front of Thorn. He set the pen beside it.
    â€œAnd I’m Jonah,” the other one said. “Like the fucker in the whale.”
    â€œYou need to write a note,” Moses said.
    â€œA note?”
    â€œYeah, a note to your friend Rusty. Apologize. Tell her you’ll see her later, maybe a few days from now. You went on a trip or whatever.”
    â€œWhat do you guys want?”
    â€œI know what he should write,” Jonah said. “Yeah, yeah, this is perfect.”
    He picked up the pen and held it out to Thorn.
    Thorn was drunk, prickly, ready for bed, not focusing a hundred percent. Maybe not even fifty. He’d taken an instant dislike to these two but was trying to remind himself he was the master of ceremonies. The host of a party and he’d assumed all the responsibilities of that position. The primary responsibility as he saw it was to be tolerant of friends and strangers, whoever showed up.
    So there he was, trying to be polite long after he’d stopped feeling polite.
    â€œA girl left me this exact note one time,” Jonah said. “It’s good. It’s just right for this occasion.”
    â€œTake the pen, Mr. Thorn,” Moses said.
    Thorn took the pen. For an instant he thought he should stab the big guy in the face with it and see where that led.
    â€œNow write this,” Jonah said. “ ‘I just need some time alone to think.’ Use those words. ‘I just need some time alone to think.’ Then sign your name.”
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” Thorn said.
    The slinky guy, Jonah, lifted his gray sweatshirt with one hand and whipped a chunky black handgun from his waistband and showed it to Thorn.
    â€œWrite those words.”
    â€œI just need some time alone to think.” Moses was looking out the kitchen windows, checking the crowd. “Do it, Thorn. Do it now.”
    Thorn bent over the pad and scribbled the words. This wasn’t a joke. That was clear. But his reasoning skills were so impaired, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of a good reason not to write the words he’d been ordered to write. So he did.
    â€œThe bitch that left me that note,” Jonah said, “I never heard from