Howie Fripp lived alone in a four-room apartment on the third floor of a walk-up. Each year the stairs seemed to get a little creakier, as did his knees. They were aching by the time he unlocked the door and went in. He switched on lights as he made his way into the minuscule kitchen and set the sack of Chinese carryout on the table.
“Hello, Howie.”
“Jesus H!” He spun around in time to see Barrie stepping from his dark bedroom into the kitchen.
“Did I startle you, Howie? Gee, I’m sorry. I know how annoying it can be to have someone sneak up on you like that.”
“You scared the hell out of me! What are you—”
He saw the tall, slim man standing in the shadows behind Barrie. “Who’s that?”
“Gray Bondurant, meet Howie Fripp.” She stepped aside to afford Howie a better look at the commando with the fierce blue eyes, graying hair, and mean mouth.
“You’re Gray Bondurant?”
“I see you’ve heard of him,” Barrie said.
Howie swallowed a knot of apprehension. “A pleasure, Mr. Bondurant.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
Even his voice sounded tough. It reminded Howie of the man he’d once played billiards with—the one he had hoped would become his friend. The one who had never returned to the bar.
Howie’s eyes darted back and forth between his uninvited guests. He didn’t like the expression on Bondurant’s face. Not one bit. He wore the confident, fearless air of a predator who’d just spotted his next meal and knew that it was going to be an easy kill. “What are you doing in my apartment?”
“We came for information.” With the toe of his boot—Whaddaya know? Some guys really do wear cowboy boots—Bondurant dragged a chair from beneath the table. “Sit down, Howie. Don’t let us interrupt your supper. We can talk while you eat.”
Howie dropped into the chair, but he shook his head when Bondurant pushed the sack of Chinese food across the table toward him. The thought of sweet and sour pork and shrimp chow mein made his stomach heave. His attempts to hide his queasiness failed.
“What’s the matter, Howie?” Barrie asked. “You look sort of green. Aren’t you glad to see us?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you, Barrie. Not under any circumstances. Jenkins threatened to fire me if I gave you the time of day.”
“Then you’re in luck, Howie, because we already know the time of day,” Gray Bondurant said.
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, Barrie, it’s just, you know—jeez, I gotta protect my interests. It’s nothing personal, I swear. We parted friends, didn’t we? No hard feelings. At least none on my side.”
His armpits were leaking like a ten-year-old garden hose. “I… I… Hey, wait, I have a message for you. Just a minute, I jotted it down on a slip.” He patted his pockets until he found it.
“Here,” he said, extending her the note. “This call came in just as I was on my way out tonight. Said she was a friend of yours. Demanded to speak to you, so the operator put her through to me.”
“Charlene Walters,” Barrie read.
“That’s right. She said it was urgent and gave me her phone number. See, I wrote it down right there.”
“She’s not a friend. She’s a nutcase who’s always calling me.”
“Oh.” That was disappointing. Howie had hoped this Charlene might be somebody important, somebody Barrie wanted badly to speak to. He was trying his best to be helpful, but he didn’t think Bondurant was impressed. His granite expression hadn’t softened.
Howie watched fearfully as the tall, imposing hero pulled out the remaining chair at the table and sat down, straddling it backward. His movements were sinuous and silent. His eyes would give anybody the creeps. Howie thought they seemed to drill straight through his skull. A sane person wouldn’t mess with this hombre.
Barrie leaned against the kitchen counter and folded her arms. She looked relaxed and was smiling a smile that Howie knew was artificial. “You’re sweating like a pig, Howie.”
“I want to know why you’re here.”
“Gray and I just dropped by for a friendly little chat.”
“About what?”