Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“He told me he went to Lefty’s today to recover a pocket watch he’d lost during the raid. He’s the flashiest dresser I’ve ever come across, but I’ve never once seen him sporting a pocket watch.”

It finally sank in that he hadn’t insulted her carelessly or maliciously. He’d wanted to secure her attention because what he was telling her held importance, at least to him.

She placed her hands over his where they still pressed against her cheeks. “Why are you preoccupied with this man you obviously dislike, and how does it relate to me?”

He withdrew his hands gradually, as though fearing that as soon as he released her she might sprint into the house. Which she probably should do. And bar the door. But when he said, “Just hear me out,” she stayed where she was and gave a small nod.

“Landry palled around with a young man in the boardinghouse. A show-off. Obnoxious. Named Randy. One night, he up and moved out without notice, without telling anybody.”

“So?”

He raised a shoulder. “Maybe nothing, but…” He raked his fingers through his hair again. “Landry made light of it. Shrugged it off. But I got the impression he knew exactly what had happened to Randy.”

“If they were friends, maybe Randy had asked him to cover his trail.”

“Maybe,” he said, but it lacked backbone. “He claims to be a shoe salesman. He boasts of a wide territory he covers on a routine basis, but he’s rarely away from the boardinghouse for more than a couple of days at a time.”

“Men often exaggerate their success.”

“True, but I think Landry downplays his. I think he’s very successful, but not at selling women’s shoes. He’s dealing in something else.”

“Like what?”

“Liquor. He’s bootlegging.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but when he paused to give her time to comment, she didn’t say anything.

“There’s money to be made,” he said, “and a lot of it, but it’s a dangerous occupation. There are few game rules and no such thing as honor among thieves. Double-crossers, poachers, and loudmouths—like Randy—usually wind up dead.”

He paused and focused even more sharply on her. “If I’m right about Landry, he wouldn’t want to be seen at a well-known speakeasy the night after a raid when it was closed to business. But he was seen. By you.”

She took all that in and thought how closely it correlated to what Irv had told her about the hazards of the illegal liquor trade. But she couldn’t tell Thatcher she’d heard it all before in cautionary sermons from her father-in-law. She carefully weighed how she would respond.

“The only two people I saw were Lefty and Gert. Not even a sign of the girls. On my way out, before I got to the highway, a car passed me on the road. I didn’t see the driver. Even if I had, and had recognized Mr. Landry, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought because I don’t know him, and how he earns his living makes no difference whatsoever to me. So even assuming you’re right and his business dealings are illegal, he has absolutely nothing to fear from me.”

“But see, Laurel, you may have a lot to fear from him.”





Thirty-Eight



Gert knew that eyes had been on her since she’d turned off the highway. From the crevices of boulders, from behind foliage, from underneath the collapsed roof of a disused barn, she was being watched, probably through the sights of deer rifles.

Her arrival had been charted, but when she reached the house, it was in total darkness, and there was no one to greet her, not that she’d expected a welcoming committee.

A pack of mongrels was standing sentinel. They weren’t barking, but she could hear their bloodthirsty growls as they stood alert and eager for the signal that would send them charging her.

She heaved herself out of her auto and moved to stand in the beam of her headlight where she could be seen. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she hollered, “Call off your mutts and your militia and invite me in.”

Nothing happened. She stayed as she was, knowing that the head of the clan was taking his sweet time just to piss her off. “I ain’t leavin’ till we talk, Hiram.”

From around the corner of the house, a Johnson materialized out of the darkness. She couldn’t make out any distinct features except for the shotgun he held aimed at her.

“You’re trespassing,” he said. “Be on your way.”

“Or what? You’ll pull the trigger?”

“You make a sizable target. I couldn’t miss with both eyes closed.”

“If you shoot me, you’d just be provin’ what everybody knows, and that’s that all Johnsons are stupider than they are ugly, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, to talk to the ol’ man. Unless he’s dead.”

“He ain’t.”

“Figured that was too much to hope for. Tell him to show hisself or he’ll never know what I know about Wally’s killin’.”

Seconds ticked past. Then, no doubt acting on a cue from inside the house, the young man lowered the shotgun. The dogs backed down, whimpering in disappointment over being denied a mauling. The screen door squeaked open and a young woman came out onto the porch. “He says come on in.”