"Franz, Darren - Where The Wind Blows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Franz Darren)

Crossing his arms, he watched as the two men entered the Four Aces. Slat bit his lower lip. His mind was racing. Who were these clowns? Reaching for the horn, he drew his hand back.

Bad move.

Honking the horn would tip off the goons as well as Johnny. Best to go in, slow and quiet.

Slat killed the engine, cutting off the Andrews Sisters in mid-harmony. Pulling out his .45, he switched the safety off and held it at his side as he slipped out of the Packard.

The cool evening air felt good against his face. Leaning against the door of the club, he shouldered it open as quietly as possible and slipped inside.

The club was quiet and dark. An off-night. The stage for the floor show had been swept; the chairs had been stacked on top of the tables.

Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Slat bobbed and weaved past the main room to the bar. Behind this chipped and pitted hunk of wood were several bottles of amber liquid and a lone beer tap. Beyond the bar was a door, behind which glowed a single band of yellow light.

The two apes who had come in before him were pressed against the door, listening.

Both were packing heavy artillery.

Faintly, like a telephone's bad connection, Slat could hear Johnny on the other side of the door.

"Now, you listen to me, bub. You've got exactly two seconds to cough up that 25 grand or I'll drill you. Get me?!"

"Please..." a sniveling voice replied. "I dunno what you're talking about!"

Muffled sounds. Johnny dishing out some lumps.

"Last chance," Johnny said. "Fork over that dough!"

Everything happened too fast after that.

The two gunmen signaled each other with curt nods and rammed against the door.

Slat took aim as they shouldered the door and fired three shots.

The door crashed inward as the gorillas fell on it, gushing blood.

Johnny and the proprietor of the Four Aces looked at the door and the blood-soaked bodies in amazement. The proprietor began to scream, a high, keening sound.

Johnny cuffed the man with the butt of his .38, and he crashed to the floor. His eyes rolled up inside his head, showing only the whites.

Slat was still reeling from the loud reports of his .45. A ringing in his ears muffled the other sounds around him. He barely heard Johnny speak.

"Snitch was full of shit. There's no payoff money here."

"Never mind that," Slat replied. He could still smell the stench of gunpowder in the hazy air. "Those two monkeys were about to get the drop on you. Who sent them?"

Johnny armed sweat from his brow; he was still keyed up. He knelt down beside the bodies and began rummaging through their pockets.

No I.D.'s. Both men had been carrying .44 revolvers.