"Anthony H Stewart - The Loser" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Anthony H)

"What?"

"You heard the man," Taggart drawled. "Hit the road like Jack. You didn't tell us about any trouble you'd had before. We cooperated. You lied. It cost us the case."

"I didn't think it was important. Besides, how come you guys didn't find it?" Davidson's face turned three shades of scarlet.

"Get out," he said. Taggart put another hand on Jimmy's shoulder. He jerked it off.

"Don't you touch me," Jimmy said.

Taggart grabbed Jimmy by the cuff of his jacket.

"We go by the book. That crooked lawyer probably bribed somebody to get that information. Hell. That's probably why he didn't clean your clock before the trial. He knew he had you."

"Damn it, you promised to get me out of this two-bit town. Give me a new start. Damn it, we signed a paper to that effect."

Adamson pulled a piece of paper out of his desk.

"I'll admit that," he said. "It's right here."

He ripped it in two and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket. Jimmy lunged at Davidson, but Taggart stopped him cold, throwing him against the nearby wall.

"He'll kill me!" Jimmy shouted.

Taggart pulled his pistol, a .357 magnum that looked like a cannon to Jimmy. He gestured with it.

"Scram, boy. Now." He pulled Jimmy out of the room and gave him a shove down the hall. "And don't come back."

Jimmy exited the courthouse in a run. He didn't have much time. Hours, probably. McMann's goon squad would be on him like ugly on an ape. He had to get out of town. The cops had impounded his car, but he had enough change for a bus. What a comedown. He had dreams of lying on a sunny Mexico beach, drinking something with an umbrella in it while watching bronze-skinned girls walk by in skimpy bikinis.

He got off the bus a block from his apartment. He had money there, and secret tapes of conversations between him and McMann that he had kept back. Maybe he could use that. Maybe. The door was unlocked. He gave an involuntary shiver. Standing aside the door, he pushed it open with his foot. A quick glance told him all he needed to know. Clothes were all over the floor. The computer screen was smashed, and his computer books were scattered everywhere, pages ripped from their bindings.

Jimmy shook his head. McMann wasn't taking chances. This must have happened during the trial. No use looking here. And the goons are probably already on his trail. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet. A couple of women were taking loads of clothes in plastic baskets to the apartment's Laundromat. A lonely car went slowly down the street. A little too slow? Jimmy looked around, hoping he would recognize somebody. No luck. If they were watching him, they were damn good at hiding.

He went to his bank. They had taken all his credit cards, and had frozen his account. At least maybe he could swing a small loan. Anything just to get out of town. As soon as he entered the door he stopped in his tracks. Rudy Wallace, one of McMann's henchmen, was sitting on a waiting room couch reading a newspaper. Rudy had been a friend. No longer. If McMann told Wallace to shoot his crippled grandmother, he'd do it without a thought. He was halfway down the block when he gathered the courage to look back. He didn't see Wallace, but he recognized his car. He had to find transportation. The bus wasn't going to cut it.

The sky had become overcast, and he could smell rain off in the distance. Just what he needed. He ducked down an alley and headed for what he hoped was some transportation.

Freddy Nichol's garage was a flat-roofed, three-rack place that smelled of grease and cigar smoke. Freddy was in his office, a five-by-five cubicle that smelled of dust. He looked up as Jimmy filled the doorway.

"I know what you want, Walters." Freddy said, puffing a cigar. "Can't help you."

Jimmy's heart sank.

"They already got to you, Freddy?"

"Who you think I got the loan from to set up this place?"

"Come on. You owe me five hundred for fixing your computer."